BOOKS  BY 
RUTH   McENERY   STUART 

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THE  SECOND  WOOING  OF  SALINA  SUE. 

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HARPER    &    BROTHERS,    PUBLISHERS,    N.    Y. 


Copyright,  1894,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 
Copyright,  1891,  by  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  Co. 

All  rights  reserved. 
Published  October,  1909. 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

THE    MERCANTILE    HOUSE    OF    DI    CARLO  .      .       .      Frontispiece 
"SHE    LOOKED    NOT    UNLIKE     THE     STATUES    OF 

THE    VIRGIN    MOTHER    AND    CHILD"    .       .       .    Facing  p.  26 

"AND  THE  THREE   FOLLOWED   THE   CHILDREN 

HOME"  "        60 


405465 


1  / 


(bazlotta  6  Intended  ¥ 


(Satlottad   Contended 


A  SHORT,  swarthy,  gray  -  haired  old  man  who 
swung  his  little  legs  on  both  sides  of  the  barrel 
upon  which  he  sat;  who  smoked  a  stumpy  old 
pipe;  whose  one  heavy  eyebrow  ran  clear  across 
his  forehead;  who  wore  tiny  gold  ear-rings  and 
seldom  cut  his  hair,  who  spoke  in  monosyllables- 
such  was  Carlo  Di  Carlo,  "the  Dago." 

A  tall,  fat,  blooming  brown  creature,  loud- 
talking  and  voluble,  full  of  fun  and  temper,  luxu 
riant  to  coarseness;  whose  bust  measure  and  age 
were  both  somewhere  in  the  early  forties;  who 
seemed  fashioned  for  laughter  and  unlimited  ma 
ternity;  who  sat  every  evening  on  the  front  door 
step  of  the  shop  opposite  her  husband— this  was 
the  Signora  Di  Carlo. 

A  dainty  bit  of  a  girl,  radiant  as  petite;  dark  as 
her  father,  symmetrical  as  her  mother  of  twenty 
years  before,  whose  slim  figure  was  just  throwing 
out  hints  of  future  perfections;  whose  long  black 
hair  was  as  straight  as  an  Indian's,  but  fine  as  the 
down  upon  the  head  of  the  babe  who  lay  crowing 
upon  the  mother's  lap;  who  was  reticent  like  her 


father,  but  whose  mother's  fire  flashed  from  her 
eye  on  occasion;  a  girl  to  love,  to  hate,  to  do  and 
dare — behold  the  sweet  daughter,  Carlotta  Di 
Carlo !  The  discerning  eye  beheld  in  her  promise 
of  romance,  possibilities  of  tragedy,  and  he  who 
looked  upon  her  once  paused  to  look  again. 

A  row  of  little  black-eyed  dagoes  of  various 
ages  and  sexes,  of  various  degrees  of  beauty,  but 
all  handsome;  a  healthy,  picturesque,  noisy  lot, 
quarrelsome  without  pugnacity — these  were  the 
little  Di  Carlos. 

A  small  square  front  room,  with  a  low  shed 
around  its  two  sides  over  the  'banquette,  an  oyster- 
counter  along  its  partition -wall;  a  fruit -stand 
spread  beneath  its  sheds  opening  on  two  streets; 
a  red  lantern  hung  out  at  the  corner  for  a  sign — 
see  the  mercantile  house  of  Di  Carlo. 

Within  a  front  corner  of  the  shop  in  winter, 
and  out  on  the  banquette  in  summer,  his  chair 
placed  so  as  to  command  a  view  of  the  fruit- 
shelves  on  both  sides,  sat  a  one-legged  cobbler, 
surrounded  by  his  professional  litter  of  old  shoes, 
strings,  and  scraps  of  leather. 

Fourteen  years  before  Pat  Rooney  took  this 
chair,  engaging  to  pay  for  the  rent  and  privileges 
of  the  same  by  doing  the  family  cobbling — a  fail- 
enough  arrangement  with  a  circle  of  three  when 
Carlotta  was  wearing  her  first  shoes,  but,  to  quote 
from  Pat,  "  There's  been  niver  a  time  since  but 
the  madam's  been  aither  afther  raisin'  the  rint  on 
me  or  threatenin'  to  do  that  same,  an'  sure  I'd 


've  deserrted  long  since  if  she'd  iver  sint  me  a  no 
tification  be  an  ugly  messenger  ;  but  whin  she 
shteps  out,  'erself  bloominer  'n  iver,  wud  anither 
wan  o'  thim  black-eyed  beauties  forninst  her  buz- 
zom,  I  do  put  by  a  fresh  batch  o'  little  scraps  for 
patches  an'  trate  mesilf  to  a  dozen  on  the  half- 
shell,  on  the  strength  o'  the  new-customer  to  the 
thrade." 

The  Di  Carlos  doubtless  knew  a  good  bargain 
when  they  had  it,  and  so  Pat  had  been  encour 
aged  to  remain  by  perquisites  in  the  way  of  oys 
ters  and  fruit. 

This,  however,  was  a  scant  offset  to  an  increase 
from  one  to  nine  healthy  shoe-wearing  boys  and 
girls. 

If  Pat  had  begun  to  think  seriously  of  the  matter 
some  years  ago,  the  christening  of  a  new-comer — 
when  Pat  had  hobbled  all  the  way  up  the  aisle  at  St. 
Alphonse's  one  morning  and  recorded  a  sponsor's 
vows  for  a  diminutive  little  beauty  by  the  name 
of  Patrick  Rooney  Di  Carlo — held  him  firm  to  his 
chair  for  some  time,  and  then — well,  the  signora 
counted  on  this,  and  became  reckless,  and  there 
were  twins,  and  in  a  year  another.  There's  no 
telling  what  discontent  might  have  begun  to  fer 
ment  in  Pat's  breast  had  it  not  been  that  Carlotta 
began  to  grow  so  startlingly  beautiful,  and  young 
men  and  old  men  and  boys  began  hanging  about 
the  shop  when  there  was  nothing  to  buy,  or  buy 
ing  things  they  evidently  did  not  want,  and  all 
the  time  looking  at  Carlotta. 


Pat  had  petted  the  child,  called  her  his  "  swate- 
heart,"  trotted  her  on  his  one  knee  and  sung  her 
to  sleep  to  "  Lanigan's  Ball,"  from  the  time  he 
came  to  the  Di  Carlo  shop. 

Only  within  the  last  year,  however,  since  the 
halo  of  radiant  womanhood  had  been  hovering 
about  her,  had  a  tender  solicitude  for  the  girl  en 
tered  his  heart;  and,  although  the  signora,  fort 
unately,  did  not  suspect  it,  no  added  duty  would 
have  driven  him  from  his  post  now. 

And  yet  the  Di  Carlos  had  not  been  entirely 
unreasonable.  Later  concessions  had  been  made. 
A  room,  the  entire  garret  over  the  shop,  had  been 
placed  at  Pat's  disposal,  and  here  he  had  finally 
moved  his  few  belongings — a  cot,  a  chair  or  two, 
a  huge  green  box  which  held  his  surplus  clothing 
in  a  fraction  of  its  space  (such  a  wooden  bin  as 
the  poor  Irish  emigrant  usually  dignifies  by  the 
name  of  trunk,  and  which  one  need  not  be  Eng 
lish  to  call  a  box),  a  gaudy  picture  of  the  Virgin 
Mother  with  her  heart  aflame,  a  much- framed 
photograph  of  Carlotta  in  her  first-communion 
dress,  a  rosary  and  a  crucifix,  and— hanging  across 
the  rafters — the  moth-eaten  remains  of  a  bright 
uniform  and  a  broken  torch-lamp.  For  before  his 
accident  Pat  had  been  an  Irishman,  a  Fenian,  an 
American  ward-politician,  and  a  festive  leader  in 
torch-light  processions,  pat-riot-ism,  and  the  like. 

Nobody  ever  knew  just  how  or  by  whom  the 
shot  was  fired  that  made  him  a  cripple  and  a  cob 
bler  (and,  he  always  added,  "  a  Dutchman  and  a 


dago,  to  boot"  laughing  alone  at  his  final  pun). 
But  it  was  a  fearful  row.  Three  men  were  shot, 
and  all  came  near  dying  but  didn't  die,  and,  as 
all  the  wounded  carried  weapons  more  or  less 
spent,  they  considered  discretion  the  better  part 
of  valor,  and  instigated  no  investigations. 

All  this  was  before  the  days  of  telephones  and 
hospital  ambulances,  and  Pat  was  carried  into 
the  shop  of  a  German  shoemaker,  next  door  to 
the  saloon  where  the  shooting  was  done.  He 
would  probably  have  been  sent  to  the  Charity 
Hospital  next  day,  however,  excepting  that  his 
host,  Hans  Schmidt,  had  happened  to  be  in  the 
saloon  at  the  time  of  the  disturbance,  and,  his 
recollection  of  the  matter  being  somewhat  hazy, 
he  had  feared  possible  implications,  and  insisted  on 
nursing  the  wounded  man  through  his  trouble. 

The  neatness  of  this  arrangement  lay  in  the 
fact  that  as  soon  as  the  convalescent  was  able  to 
hold  up  his  head,  here  was  a  trade  for  him,  right 
under  his  eyes  and  hands.  The  ward-politician 
became  an  artisan,  and,  as  he  characteristically 
expressed  it,  "  his  first  tool  was  his  last." 

"  An'  ye  niver  seen  an  Irishman  a-mindin'  shoes 
afore  ?"  he  was  wont  to  say  on  occasion.  "Mebbe 
not  ;  an'  yet  divil  a  wan  ud  turrn  'is  back  on  a 
cobbler!  'Tis  thrue  enough,  in  the  ould  counthry, 
'tis  the  prastes  that  do  be  savin'  our  sowls  for  us, 
an'  I'm  worrkin'  at  the  same  thrade,  savin'  soles 
to  feed  me  body.  But  the  edge  of  the  joke  is, 
'twas  losin'  me  fut  that  set  me  to  shoemakin'." 


Thus  by  light  and  witty  speech  did  he  cover  what 
he  firmly  believed  to  be  a  broken  spirit. 

A  tedious  convalescence,  with  enforced  ab 
stemiousness,  had  given  him  ample  time  for  re 
flection,  and  by  the  time  he  had  been  nourished 
back  to  strength  on  apple-pie,  cinnamon  cake, 
nudels,  and  smierkcise,  and  found  himself  practi 
cally  apprenticed  to  a  shoemaker,  he  felt  that  he 
was  no  longer,  even  at  heart,  "one  of  the  boys." 

As  soon  as  his  period  of  invalidism  was  safely 
over,  however,  when  his  cautious  and  worthy  host 
was  assured  that  his  life  was  no  longer  in  jeopardy, 
things  were  rearranged  on  a  business  basis,  and 
the  terms  were  not  satisfactory  to  the  'prentice, 
who,  with  a  true  Celtic  alacrity,  had  mastered  the 
trade  to  a  degree  that  surprised  himself. 

Before  the  occupation  of  the  corner  shop  by 
the  Di  Carlos,  a  cobbler  had  carried  on  a  busi 
ness  here,  by  which  he  and  a  small  barefoot  fami 
ly  had  managed  to  live  ;  and  when  Pat  discovered 
the  change  of  tenants,  the  bright  idea  of  slipping 
into  this  trade  occurred  to  him  —  hence  the 
proposition,  conveyed  by  an  interpreter,  to  oc 
cupy  a  cobbler's  chair  in  the  new  fruit-shop. 

The  arrangement  had  much  to  recommend  it. 
On  wash-days,  when  the  father  and  the  boys  were 
out  peddling  over-ripe  stock,  Pat  often  represent 
ed  the  entire  business,  calling  "  Shop  !"  on  occa 
sion,  or  even  effecting  a  trade  when  there  were 
no  complications. 

"Picayune  o'  lemons,  is  it?"  he  would  say,  for 


9 


instance,  to  the  small-boy  customer.  "  Fetch  yei 
silver  heer,till  I  feel  the  heft  av  ut.  That's  solid — 
rings  like  the  bells  o'  heaven !  Drop  it  beyant  on  the 
counter — so.  Now,  pick  two  big  lemons  or  three 
little  wans.  That's  a  man  ;  takes  three  middlin' 
sizes.  He's  got  a  business  fist  on  'im — '11  be  a  Van- 
derbilt  yet — nades  a  shoe-string  for  lagniappe" 
And  to  himself,  as  the  embryonic  Vanderbilt  de 
parted,  he  would  continue  after  this  fashion  : 

"  Faith,  an'  be  the  time  I  do  worrk  up  me  Dutch 
thrade  wud  a  dago's  business,  an'  throw  in  a  Creole 
lagniappe,  I  do  have  to  run  me  hand  forninst  me 
flabby  pockut-book  to  know  mesilf  for  a  Paddy." 
And  his  soliloquy  held  as  much  truth  as  humor  ; 
for,  notwithstanding  the  fact  that  he  soon  com 
manded  a  neat  little  custom,  Pat's  heart  and  hand 
were  those  of  a  true  son  of  the  Emerald  Isle. 

From  the  day  she  first  put  up  her  pretty  red  lips 
for  the  shaggy  old  fellow  to  kiss,  his  whole  heart 
and  purse  had  belonged  to  the  baby  Carlotta. 
As  his  mind  had  begun  to  run  on  shoe-leather,  his 
first  spare  dollar  had  gone  for  a  pair  of  little  red 
shoes  for  her  when  she  was  barely  able  to  toddle. 

This  was  the  beginning  ;  and  then  there  were 
other  things — trinkets,  a  pair  of  gold  ear-rings  set 
with  turquoises  (and  he  had  locked  himself  in  the 
coal-house  and  stopped  his  ears  while  they  were 
put  into  her  little  ears),  and  then,  later,  a  thimble, 
then  a  prayer-book  and  mother-of-pearl  rosary  ; 
and  so  it  went. 

As  he  petted  the  little  thing  and  the  other 


1(1 


babies  as  they  came,  he  accused  himself  of  an  old 
man's  fondness  ;  though  when  this  story  begins 
he  was  in  fact  but  forty  years  old. 

"  Little  Lottie "  came  to  stand  in  his  life  in 
place  of  all  he  had  lost,  and  he  took  comfort  in 
her,  calling  himself  "an  ould  grandmother"  while 
he  buttoned  her  tiny  gowns  or  washed  her  pretty 
little  hands  and  face  for  her. 

"Say,  Carlo,"  said  the  signora,  one  day — this 
was  when  Carlotta  was  about  six  years  old — "  wad 
you  say  eef  we  geev-a  C'lotta  to  Meester  Pad  fo' 
wife  wan  day,  eh  ?" 

' '  Indade,  me  respicted  mother-in-law,"  Pat  re 
plied,  laughing,  "sure  ye're  too  late  shpakin'I 
Lottie  an'  me's  engaged  six  months,  come  Moddy 
Graw." 

And  so  it  gradually  came  about  that  he  called 
the  pretty  dark-eyed  child  "  me  swateheart,"  "  me 
intinded,"  "  me  future,"  and  the  like,  while  she 
would  always  leave  her  father  or  mother  to  go  to 
"  Woona "  (her  best  baby  effort  at  his  name  in 
the  early  days  when  he  was  "Mr.  Rooney  "  in  the 
Di  Carlo  household). 

Within  the  last  year,  however,  while  as  unfail 
ingly  attentive  and  gentle,  he  called  her  only 
Lottie,  and  any  allusion  to  the  old  jests  was  wit 
tily  turned  aside. 

In  the  evenings,  after  dark,  Pat  generally 
formed  one  of  the  family  circle  on  the  banquette 
about  the  doors,  flavoring  the  conversation  with 
his  unfailing  humor  and  mirth. 


!  I 


Usually  at  about  eight  o'clock  the  little  father 
would  jump  down  from  his  barrel,  and,  rubbing 
the  leg  that  had  "gone  to  sleep,"  hop  around 
limping  while  he  closed  in  the  fruit-shelves,  took 
down  the  lantern,  and  prepared  to  lock  up  the 
shop. 

At  his  first  movement  Pat  hobbled  in,  carrying 
his  chair  with  him,  the  signora  following,  and 
bending  over  her  sleeping  bundle  with  a  maternal 
"  Sh-h-h  !"  as  she  passed  in. 

Finally,  just  before  entering  himself,  the  father 
called,  "  Toney  !  Pasquale !  Joe  !  Anita !  Neek !" 
and  a  crowd  came  rushing  noisily  in  from  the  con 
gregation  of  children  half-way  down  the  block, 
one  or  two  of  whom,  generally  pursued  them  to 
the  door  for  a  "last  tag"  and  "good -night," 
while  a  voice  or  two  from  the  foremost  Di  Carlos 
answered  from  within,  "  Sleep  tight." 

As  they  flocked  in,  passing  the  little  old  father 
standing  in  the  doorway,  he  looked  proudly  upon 
them  and  grunted  his  approval.  They  were  a 
royal  lot,  and  they  were  his. 

The  scene  reminds  one  of  a  familiar  barn-yard 
group — a  little  game  rooster,  a  fine  Brahma  hen, 
and  their  brood  of  handsome  chicks.  The  dimin 
utive  but  pompous  father  struts  around  with  a 
most  important  proprietary  air,  and,  flattering 
himself,  forgets  to  look  at  the  mother.  So  it  was 
with  little  Di  Carlo.  Men  and  roosters  are  so 
thoughtless. 

It  was  true,  Caiiotta  was  a  beauty,  and  every 


12 

one  said  she  was  the  image  of  her  father ;  and  so 
she  was — his  image  inspired.  And  the  mother  was 
the  inspiration. 

If  the  little  husband  reminded  one  of  a  rooster, 
a  rooster  who  never  crowed,  it  was  not  so  much 
because  the  wife  persisted  in  doing  the  family 
crowing,  as  well  as  cackling,  as  that  it  pleased 
him  to  sit  by  and  smoke  while  she  assumed  his 
prerogative.  One  always  felt  that  the  crow  was 
in  him,  and  that  he  had  full  confidence  in  the  vol 
ume  of  it.  Such  is  the  value  of  reserve. 

In  deference  to  Pat,  the  language  of  the  even 
ing  circle  was  usually  English.  But  though  he 
had  never  attempted  the  Italian  speech  or  pro 
fessed  a  comprehension  of  it,  fourteen  years  of 
such  familiarity  with  it  as  the  shop  afforded  had 
opened  the  doors  of  his  understanding,  and  noth 
ing  less  than  a  subtlety  of  meaning  as  far  beyond 
the  Di  Carlos  as  himself  would  have  eluded  him 
now. 

A  sort  of  delicacy,  however,  forbade  his  reveal 
ing  this  to  those  who  sometimes  chose  to  speak  in 
his  presence  without  inviting  his  participation. 

Among  the  occasional  frequenters  of  the  shop 
had  been  for  some  time  an  old  man,  Pietro  Socola 
by  name,  for  whom  Pat  had  always  felt  an  in 
stinctive  dislike. 

During  the  past  few  months  Socola  had  be 
come  a  frequent  guest,  and  while  he  sat  on  a  box 
at  the  father's  side  in  the  evenings  and  spoke  in 
a  low  tone  in  Italian,  he  was  observed  to  cast 


18 


frequent  covert  glances  toward  the  daughter, 
Carlotta. 

Now,  Socola  was  rich,  according  to  the  Di  Carlo 
standard,  and  a  widower,  and  so  Pat  was  not  super- 
suspicious  in  interpreting  these  glances  as  ominous 
of  meaning  to  Carlotta. 

The  suspicion  quickened  his  hearing,  but  the 
most  assiduous  eavesdropping  had  as  yet  dis 
closed  nothing  to  confirm  his  fears.  Gossip  about 
the  men  on  the  luggers  or  at  the  Picayune  Tier, 
discussions  as  to  the  rise  or  fall  in  prices  of  fruit 
or  oysters,  interspersed  with  long  tobacco-flavored 
silences,  seemed  to  constitute  all  their  social  in 
tercourse  ;  and  yet — why  did  the  ugly  old  fellow 
keep  looking  at  Carlotta? 

Socola  was  of  the  one  essentially  homely  Italian 
type.  His  blue-gray  eyes  and  reddish  hair  were 
bereft  of  any  leaning  towards  beauty  by  a  heavy 
swarthy  skin,  while  the  entire  absence  of  upper 
front  teeth  gave  a  touch  of  grotesqueness  to  his 
ugly  visage.  Short-necked  and  square  of  build, 
he  had  nevertheless  a  stoop,  producing  an  effect 
as  if  his  face  arose  from  his  chest.  The  edges  of 
his  grizzly -red  mustache  were  further  colored 
from  the  tobacco  which  he  perpetually  chewed, 
and  his  hairy  little  hands  bore  about  their  blunt 
finger-tips  similar  suggestions  of  the  weed. 

Socola  was  plain,  as  well  as  distinctly  deficient 
in  the  subtle  charm  which  we  call  personal  mag 
netism. 

His  wife  had  been  dead  but  three  months  when 


14 


he  first  came  on  Sunday  afternoon  to  the  Di 
Carlos'.  For  three  successive  Sundays  he  re 
turned  thus,  and  then  he  began  dropping  in  in 
the  late  evenings,  until  now  almost  any  night  he 
could  be  seen  propped  up  on  his  box  at  Di  Carlo's 
side,  and  whether  Carlotta  sat  on  the  door-step 
working  on  her  "sampler"  or  promenaded  the 
banquette  with  one  of  the  twins  astride  her  hip, 
old  Pietro's  eyes  followed  her. 

This,  which  Pat  had  been  observing  for  some 
weeks,  culminated  one  day  in  a  tangible  occasion 
for  alarm. 

He  was  sitting  inside  the  shop,  putting  a  finish 
ing-stitch  to  a  patch,  when  he  saw  Socola  pass  the 
door  to  join  the  circle  about  the  steps  without. 

A  moment  later  Carlotta  hastily  entered  the 
shop,  her  face  black  as  a  storm-cloud. 

"  Come  heer,  Lottie,"  he  called,  quickly ;  and, 
as  she  approached  him,  "  Whut  ails  ye  ?" 

He  had  never  seen  her  so  angry.  It  was  a  mo 
ment  before  she  spoke. 

"  Shpake  out,  Lottie,  me  girrl,  an'  tell  me  who 
done  ye  onythink." 

"I  don't  like  oP  Pietro  Socola,"  she  said,  finally, 
her  eyes  flashing. 

"  ISTorr  me  nayther,"  he  answered,  shaking  his 
head.  "But  tell  me  whut  'e  done  ye." 

"He  mashed  my  chin." 

"  Squazed  yer  chin,  did  'e  ?  An'  may  the  divil 
snatch  'is  mother  from  heaven  !" 

"  Yas,  an'  try  to  kiss  me.     I  hate  'im  !" 


"  Thried  to  kiss  ye,  did  'e  ?  Bad  lack  to  'is 
lonesome  mouth  !  An'  who  seen  urn  ?" 

"My  paw  an'  my  maw  was  a-talkin'.  I  don' 
know  ef  my  maw  seen  'im  or  not.  She  laughed. 
I  hate  'im !" 

"  See  heer,  Lottie."  He  was  much  excited,  but 
spoke  low,  lest  he  should  be  overheard.  "  There's 
throuble  a-brewin'  for  ye,  me  beauty.  Don't  ye 
say  northin'  to  nobody,  but  ef  that  low-down, 
dirrty,  blue-eyed  nagur  av  a  dago  lays  the  heft 
av  'is  finger-tip  on  ye  again,  ye  go  for  um  :  d'ye 
heer?" 

She  was  silent,  and  he  continued:  "Wull  ye 
do  what  I  tell  ye,  Lottie  ?" 

"  Yas." 

"  Well,  take  me  advice  an'  kape  out  av  arrm's 
len'th  av  'im  whin  ye  can;  but  whin  ye  can't, 
an'  he  so  much  as  blows  'is  breath  on  a  hair  o'  yer 
head,  ye  come  down  on  'im  wud  a  regular  thun- 
derin'  polthogue — like  this!" 

He  placed  his  closed  fist  against  his  own  temple. 

"See  heer,  colleen,"  he  resumed,  with  some  hes 
itancy,  "  I  c'd  lather  'im  for  ye — a  couple  o'  hefts 
o'  me  peg  'd  land  'im  pantin'  in  the  gutther — but 
'twould  do  ye  no  good." 

"  'F  'e  turn  'is  sassy  ol'  eyes  on  me  again,  I'm 
goin'  slap  'is  face  good,"  she  said,  as  she  turned  to 
serve  a  customer. 

A  suppressed  sigh  escaped  the  cobbler,  and  his 
fingers  moved  nervously  as  he  finished  his  patch. 

His  worst   fears  were  materializing.      Socola, 


16 


the  rich,  the  honored  guest,  was  coming  for  Car- 
lotta. 

His  cobbling  finished  for  the  day,  he  rose  to  go 
to  his  room.  He  had  not  the  heart  to  join  the 
circle  about  the  doors  to-night.  He  hesitated  a 
moment,  and  glanced  without. 

The  signora  had  crossed  from  her  seat  on  the 
step,  and  drawn  a  stool  opposite  the  men — her  hus 
band  and  Socola. 

The  guest  was  speaking  very  earnestly  in  a  low 
voice  in  Italian,  and  his  audience  listened  with  ev 
ident  deference. 

Pat  heard  distinctly  Carlotta's  name.  Who  can 
blame  him  for  lingering,  just  a  moment,  to  be 
doubly  sure  he  was  not  mistaken  ? 

But  no,  he  heard  it  again,  and  then  something 
about  money — "a  thousand  dollars"  —  and  the 
mother  and  father  of  the  girl  smiled,  and,  while 
they  exchanged  glances,  nodded  assent. 

For  the  first  time  since  he  had  been  a  teetotaler 
Pat  staggered  as  he  walked  to  the  staircase,  and 
when  he  reached  his  attic  room  he  sank  into  his 
chair,  trembling  as  if  an  ague  possessed  him. 

He  was  bewildered  as  much  at  his  own  sensa 
tions  as  at  that  which  had  produced  them.  What 
did  it  mean  ?  It  was  bad  enough,  but  why  were  cold 
chills  running  all  over  him?  Why  did  he  think 
of  the  night  he  heard  of  his  mother's  death  ?  Why 
was  he  sobbing  before  he  could  control  himself  ? 

Oh,  Patrick  Rooney,  is  it  possible  that  you  are 
in  love  ? 


It  was  even  so;  and  the  sudden  revelation  of  the 
truth  to  himself  seerned  to  seize  and  shake  him  to 
the  foundations  of  his  being. 

The  exquisite  agony  of  the  first  discovery  soon 
spent  itself  in  emotion,  but  all  night  long  he  sat 
as  one  dazed,  lost  in  wonder,  bewildered. 


II 

When  at  last  the  day  broke,  when  the  explain 
ing  sun's  rays  lifted  the  veil  that  the  moonlight 
imposes,  and  instead  of  shadows  Pat  began  to  see 
things  clearly,  he  cast  his  eyes  about  him,  as  if  to 
reassure  himself  and  get  his  bearings.  Every 
thing  in  his  meagre  apartment  seemed  to  hold 
some  association  with  the  child,  Carlotta.  Hang 
ing  upon  the  wall  were  the  little  worn  red  shoes, 
his  first  gift  to  her,  bearing  yet  the  impress  of  her 
baby  feet.  Within  the  lid  of  his  big  trunk,  open 
before  him,  swung  the  tiny  brass  hook  he  had 
placed  there  so  that  she  might  safely  fasten  her 
self  within,  and,  hiding  here  until  the  storm  was 
over,  she  had  escaped  many  a  whipping  from  her 
mother.  A  row  of  auger-holes  along  the  back, 
ruining  the  trunk,  had  further  fitted  it  for  her 
safe  retreat.  And  she  had  never  told.  She  had 
always  been  a  rare  child. 

Every  picture  summoned  by  the  associations 
was  charmingly  pretty,  and  when  finally  he  cast 
his  eyes  down  upon  himself — upon  his  toil-stained 


18 

garments,  his  rough  hands,  his  one  untidy  shoe — 
he  felt  as  if  he  were  blushing  at  a  sense  of  his  utter 
unfitness  for  her. 

Seizing  his  mirror,  a  triangular  fragment,  he 
closely  scrutinized  his  unshaven  face  and  unkempt 
hair,  and  as  he  laid  the  glass  down  he  turned  his 
vision  inward  and  backward  upon  the  years  of  his 
life  at  the  Di  Carlos'  and  before.  He  thought  of 
Carlotta  when  first  he  saw  her,  and  of  the  years 
since.  She  had  sweetened  and  cheered  his  life 
ever  since  he  had  known  her. 

She  and  this  sacred  love  that  had  come  to  him 
were  holy  things,  but  what  should  he  do  with 
them — he,  a  poor,  miserable,  penniless,  clumsy 
old  cripple  ?  It  was  a  terrible,  terrible  folly,  this 
love ;  and  yet,  despite  the  hopelessness  of  it,  de 
spite  the  vivid  ludicrous  view  of  it  which  his  Irish 
perception  afforded,  he  felt  transported  by  it  into 
a  state  of  painful  ecstasy.  What  should  he  do 
with  himself — where  go  ? 

For  one  thing,  he  must  bathe  and  shave  and  cast 
off  these  ugly,  dusty  garments.  The  sacred  thing 
that  had  come  to  him  required  this  much  of  him. 

It  was  late  in  the  morning  before  his  toilet  was 
complete.  His  ordinary  hurried  ablutions  "for 
dacency's  sake"  were  performed  with  reference 
to  the  world.  To-day  his  own  consciousness  de 
manded  that  he  should  be  clean.  Even  his  old 
wooden  leg  received  its  first  baptism,  the  rite  be 
ing  applied  with  soft  soap  and  a  scrubbing-brush. 
The  hard  old  oak,  polished  from  long  use,  shone 


19 


like  the  Di  Carlo  biscuit-board — and  it  must  be 
understood  that  the  signora  was  of  the  clean  sort, 
unfortunately  in  the  minority  among  her  class. 

Pat  had  just  readjusted  his  peg  with  new  leath 
er  straps,  when  two  little  black  eyes  appeared 
above  the  stairway. 

"Mr.  Pat,  dey  got  a  colored  lady  down-stairs 
what  want  her  shoes  mend."  It  was  the  boy  Pas- 
quale,  and  he  was  all  the  way  up  now. 

"  Tell  'er  I'm  not  worrkin'  to-day,  Pasquale,  me 
b'y.  I'm  very  sick." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Pat,  you  scared  me  awful !  I  thought 
you  was  a  man  up  here." 

"  An'  did  ye  r'a'ly  ?  Sure  an'  ye  made  a  terri 
ble  mishtake,  for  there's  northin'  up  heer  but 
three-quarrters  av  an  ould  divil  av  a  fool." 

"  Oh,  you  look  awful  white,  Mr.  Pat !  You 
sick  f o'  true  ?  Mus'  I  call  my  maw  ?  Is  dey  got 
anybody  dead,  Mr.  Pat  ?" 

Pat's  only  previous  rigorous  toilets  had  been 
made  to  attend  an  occasional  funeral  of  some  for 
mer  comrade. 

"  Plaze  God,  there's  a  fraction  of  a  loafer  dead, 
sonny,  an'  I'm  dthressed  for  the  buryin'.  Call  no 
body,  but  go  now,  don't  be  delayin',  and  tell  the  lady 
below  I'm  tuck  suddintly  ill  an'  I'm  not  worrkin'." 

It  was  with  manifest  reluctance  that  the  little 
fellow  at  last  withdrew  his  eyes  from  the  gentle 
man  in  the  attic  to  deliver  his  message. 

In  a  moment  the  signora's  voice  was  heard  at 
the  foot  of  the  stairs : 


20 


"  Oh,  Mcester  Pad  !  Pasquale  say  god-a  some- 
theen  the  niatther  weeth-a  you.  'F  you  feel-a  sig, 
mus-a  shore  call-a  sorne#0(&/." 

"Much  obliged,  ma'am,  but  sure  I'm  takin'  a 
day  off,  jist,  an'  I'm  in  nade  o'  northin'  but  a 
broom,  if  ye'll  lind  me  the  loan  av  one." 

Pat  was  not  an  artist,  and  his  hands  were 
clumsy,  yet  the  result  of  a  single  effort  in  the  di 
rection  of  respectability  wrought  a  transformation 
in  his  apartment.  After  he  had  swept,  dusted, 
and  rearranged  his  shabby  belongings,  he  took 
from  his  box  a  little  old-fashioned  daguerreotype 
of  his  mother  and  gazed  upon  it  in  silence  for 
some  minutes.  When  finally  he  spoke,  his  voice 
was  tremulous  and  tender : 

"  Indade  an'  yer  b'y's  in  great  throuble,  mam 
my  dear.  Ye  always  said  I  was  the  biggest  fool 
o'  the  dozen,  an'  sure  I  want  to  take  back  me 
sassy  conthradiction." 

He  drew  his  sleeve  clumsily  over  it,  wiping  a 
tear  from  the  face  of  the  picture,  and,  hobbling 
across  the  room,  placed  it  open  upon  the  shelf  that 
served  for  a  mantel. 

He  did  not  go  down- stairs  that  day.  Though 
cleansed  and  clothed,  he  was  not  assured  of  being  in 
his  right  mind.  He  dreaded  to  meet  Carlotta,  lest 
she  should  detect  the  insanity  that  possessed  him, 
and  despise  him  as  he  despised  himself  for  it.  Of 
course  this  nonsense  would  die  out  in  time,  and  he 
would  always  be  just  the  same  old  "  Woona"  to  her 
as  of  yore,  and  when  the  time  and  the  right  man 


should  come  he  would  do  his  best  to  have  her  suit 
ably  married.  It  was  absurd  that  right  here  at  the 
outset  he  should  be  having  trouble  with  himself. 

For  three  days  he  felt  constrained  to  put  off 
"  till  to  -  morrow  "  his  going  down  -  stairs.  While 
he  could  not  treat  with  this  exquisite,  delicate 
thing  without  purifications  of  himself  and  sur 
roundings,  it  was  yet  only  a  something  to  be  sure 
ly  overcome.  A  few  days'  banishment  and  fast 
ing  would  restore  him  to  himself.  The  fasting, 
it  is  true,  he  practised  only  because  he  could  not 
eat,  and  the  banishment  on  a  similar  principle,  yet 
he  counted  on  this  discipline,  with  time  and  reso 
lution,  to  quell  a  passion  which  could  bring  him 
only  ignominy,  and  to  the  girl,  should  she  suspect 
it,  but  embarrassment  and  estrangement  from  her 
best  friend.  But  she  should  never  know  it. 

In  a  few  weeks,  at  furthest,  Socola  would  press 
his  suit;  for  was  there  not  every  reason  to  expect 
haste?  He  was  old  (old  men  are  always  in  a 
hurry),  a  widower  (who  ever  knew  a  widower  to 
dally  with  a  proposal  ?),  and  he  came  from  Sicily, 
from  Palermo,  that  warm  clime  of  impatient  love 
and  ardent  adorer? . 

In  a  few  weeks  Oarlotta  might  have  need  of  a 
friend.  Socola  was  rich.  The  Di  Carlos'  one 
weakness,  in  Pat's  eyes,  was  love  of  money.  The 
signora  had  laughed  when  the  old  man  tried  to 
kiss  Carlotta.  It  was  a  bad  omen.  She  would 
favor  his  suit. 

It  was  on  the  morning  of  the  fourth  day  that  lit- 


22 


tie  Pasquale  reappeared  at  the  head  of  the  stairs, 
bearing  this  time  in  his  hands  a  half-worn  shoe. 

"Back  wud  ye,  now!"  exclaimed  Pat,  anticipat 
ing  the  application.  "Sure  an'  I'm  on  the  re 
tired  lisht  for  a  couple  o'  days.  Fetch  me  no 
more  ordhers." 

"Who's  a-talkin'  'bout  orders?"  drawled  the 
pert  boy.  "Give  a  fellow  time  to  talk,  won't 
you  ?  My  maw  sez,  she  sez  C'lotta's  feet's  on  de 
groun',  and  somebody  haf  to  sew  'er  shoe." 

The  old  shoe,  torn  and  muddy,  which  the  boy 
laid  in  Pat's  hand,  bearing  the  unmistakable  im 
press  of  the  physical  vigor  and  undiscriminat- 
ing  step  of  a  growing  girl,  was  neither  small  nor 
shapely,  but  Pat's  hand  trembled  visibly  as  he 
touched  it,  and  he  felt  so  queer  that  he  was  fright 
ened.  He  seemed  to  see  Carlotta  standing  in  the 
flesh  before  him. 

"  An'  my  maw  sez,  she  sez  if  you'll  sew  it  righd 
away,  'cause  C'lotta  ain't  got  no  more  shoes,  an' — " 

"  All  right.  Tell  'er  she'll  have  a  new  shoe 
built  around  the  patch  I'll  putt  on  it,  an' — off  wud 
ye,  now." 

As  the  boy  disappeared,  Pat  turned  the  shoe 
about  in  his  hands  slowly,  and,  perceiving  the 
trembling  of  his  fingers,  exclaimed  : 

"  The  divil's  grandmother!  Sure  an'  I  wouldn't 
know  mesilf  from  a  shakin'  Quaker  or  a  quakin' 
Shaker,  I'm  that  rattled !  But  I'll  kiss  the  fut 
av  'er,  onyhow!"  And  he  laid  the  old  shoe  against 
his  lips  with  a  caressing  movement. 


23 


It  needed  many  stitches,  and  Pat  was  still  at 
work  upon  it  an  hour  later  when  he  heard  the  sig- 
nora  trudging  up  the  stairs. 

"Hello,  Meester  Pad;  'm-a  come  talk  weeth-a 
you,"  she  began,  while  still  invisible.  "  God-a  so 
much-a  troub',  haf  to  spik  weeth-a  you."  And  as 
she  finally  reached  the  landing  she  exclaimed, 
looking  about  her,  "  Name  o'  God!  Well,  I  swea'! 
Pasquale  ees-a  tell  me  you  was-a  pud  on-a  plenny 
style  up  here."  Crossing,  she  dropped  into  a  seat 
at  Pat's  side,  putting  the  baby  which  she  carried 
upon  the  floor  before  her. 

"Fo'  God  sague!  Never  was-a  seen  you  so 
fine-a  biffo'.  Belief  you  goin'  a  ged-a  marry,  Mees 
ter  Pad." 

"Arrah,  thin,  I  may's  well  confess;  Carlotta  an' 
me's  plannin'  to  shtep  over  to  S'int  Alphonse's 
some  fine  morrnin',  an"  run  across  to  Algiers  for 
a  weddin'-tower  an'  back  again  be  the  Frinch 
Marrket  f'r  a  bridal  breakfasht.  Sure  an'  we're 
only  tarryin'  for  me  mother-in-law's  perrmission." 

This  bravado  helped  him  immensely.  He  had 
said  the  same  thing  substantially  a  hundred  times 
before,  but  not  for  a  long  time.  Instead  of  laugh 
ing  as  of  yore,  however,  the  signora  grew  serious. 

"Dthaz-a  just-a  fo'  wad  I'm-a  goin'-a  talk 
weeth-a  you,  Meester  Pad.  Of-a  coze  I  know  you 
god-a  nobody  an-a  northeen,  you  haf  to  mague  a 
lill-a  fun  some  time,  but  know  sometheen  ?  Young 
gal  ligue-a  C'lotta  ees-a  god-a  no  senz.  C'lotta 
b'lief  thad.  She  thing  you  ees-a  lov'  weeth-a  her." 


24 


"  An'  who  sez  she  does  ?" 

"  I  am-a  sho',  sho'  she  b'lief  thad." 

"An'  who  sez  she  does?"  he  repeated,  with 
keen  vehemence. 

"Nobody,  only  'erselve  ees-a  say  it." 

"  An'  who  did  she  say  ut  to  ?  She  niver  said 
it,  ma'am  !" 

"My  God,  you  thing  me  I'm  a  liar?  C'lotta 
sez  to  me,  sez  I  don'-a  lov-a  no  man  bud-a  just-a 
Woona.  Wad  you  call-a  thad  ?" 

"  Begorra,  an'  I  suppose  she  loves  her  father 
betther  yet.  Who  the  divil  shud  she  like  betther 
nor  me — she  that's  afther  cutt'n'  'er  eye-teeth  on 
me  thumb-nail  ?" 

"  Of-a  coze  ;  dthaz-a  thrue  ;  bud-a  you  don' 
un'erstan',  Meester  Pad.  God-a  so  much-a  troub' 
weeth-a  thad  chiF.  Now  ees-a  raise  'er  so  big,  an' 
she  sassy  me  to  my  face.  God  knows,  I  weesh  me 
I  was-a  dead  !  God-a  so  much-a  troub'.  Fo'  two 
days,  can'd  do  northeen  weeth-a  C'lotta.  God-a  fine 
chanz,  C'lotta,  an'  she  don'  care  northeen  'boud." 

"A  fine  chance,  has  she?  An'  whut  is  it?" 
His  heart  stood  still. 

"  Pietro  Socola  ees-a  wan  reech-a  man,  Meester 
Pad.  Wan' -a  marry  weeth-a  C'lotta  /" 

"  The  divil's  pitchfork  !  An'  whut  does— whut 
does  she  say  ?" 

"  Say  she  won'-a  marry  weeth-a  heem.  Can'd 
do  northeen  weeth-a  C'lotta.  Her  pa  ees-a  w'ip 
'er,  me,  I  ees-a  w'ip  'er,  an'  the  mo'  we  ees-a  beat 
'er  the  mo'  she  ees-a  sassy  me  to  my  face." 


25 


Pat  was  speechless  with  surging  emotion,  and 
the  mother  continued  : 

"  Pietro  Socola  ees-a  prormis  me  an'  Carlo  a 
t'ousan'  dollah,  an'-a  tague  'eem  een-a  pardners, 
'f  'e  can-a  ged  C'lotta.  Oh,  'ees-a  crazy  fo'  C'lot- 
ta — lov'  er  so  hard." 

"  An'  did  'e  shpake  love  to  'er  ?" 

"  One  time  'ees-a  try  speak  weeth-a  C'lotta,  an' 
C'lotta  ees-a  slap  'is  face." 

"An' whut  did  he  say?" 

"He  ees-a  just  laugh.  Lov-a  C'lotta  so  hard 
'e  don'  care.  Want  'er  all-a  same.  Theng  God 
fo'  thad.  Tell  you,  Meester  Pad,  plenny  troub' 
een  theze-a  worP.  Come-a  talk  weeth  you  'boud 
C'lotta.  'M  goin-a  call  'er  talk  weeth-a  you.  You 
rauz-a  please  talk-a  senz  weeth  'er.  Tell  'er  she 
haf  to  marry  Socola.  C'lotta  do  anytheen-a  fo' 
you." 

Pat  was  diplomat  enough  to  see  the  worse  than 
futility  of  opposition.  He  let  her  call  Carlotta. 

Paler  than  he  had  ever  seen  her,  her  pallor  ex 
aggerating  a  dark  bruise  upon  her  cheek,  but  with 
her  head  erect,  she  appeared  before  them. 

"  Whut  ails  yer  face,  Lottie  ?"  said  the  man, 
gently,  as,  drawing  a  stool  to  his  side,  he  mo 
tioned  to  her  to  be  seated. 

She  remained  standing,  however,  and  the  moth 
er  answered : 

"  When   somebody  slap-a  company  in-a   face, 
muz-a  show  'er  how  it  feel  to  have-a  face  slap.'* 
"  An'  who  done  ut  ?" 


26 


"  Me  myselve  done  it.  Slap  'er  face  good  fo' 
her  !  Muz-a  teach-a  my  chil'  some  manners.  Lill- 
a  mo'  would-a  pud  C'lotta's  eye  oud.  Hit  'er  good 
weeth  a  tin  cup.  Take  plenny  pains,  yas,  teach-a 
C'lotta  manners  an-a  raise  'er  nice." 

The  tension  of  the  situation  here  was  happily 
relieved  by  the  signer  Di  Carlo,  who  called  loud 
ly  in  Italian  for  his  wife  to  come  and  light  up  the 
shop.  She  would  have  hesitated,  but  an  impera 
tive  "  Nbn  posso  sestare!  Spicciatevir  warned 
her  that  her  lord  was  impatient. 

She  rose  hastily,  slipping  her  feet  deftly  from 
under  the  child  who  had  crept  up  against  her  and 
fallen  asleep,  and,  bidding  Carlotta  "  min'-a  the 
baby,"  hurriedly  descended  the  stairs. 

The  child,  disturbed,  began  to  fret.  Seating 
herself,  Carlotta  raised  the  little  one  upon  her 
lap,  where  in  a  moment  it  slept  again. 

She  sat  opposite  Pat,  in  the  seat  her  mother 
had  vacated.  Sitting  thus,  with  the  beautiful 
babe  in  her  arms,  in  the  tender  twilight  which 
was  further  sensitized  by  the  subtle  insinuation 
of  light  from  a  new  moon  which  hung  just  with 
out,  she  looked  not  unlike  the  statues  in  the 
churches  of  the  Virgin  Mother  and  Child. 

Even  Pat  saw  it,  and  felt  like  crossing  himself 
as  he  looked  upon  her. 

He  had  never  seen  her  look  like  this  before. 
The  habitual  spirit  of  joyous  childishness  had 
passed  out  of  her  face,  which  seemed  clothed 
with  modesty  and  sadness. 


27 


She  had  not  spoken  since  she  entered  the  gar 
ret.  She  had  not  even  looked  at  Pat. 

Though  silent  also  for  a  time,  he  was  first  to 
speak : 

"  Well,  mavourneen,  me  poor  child  o'  sorrow, 
the  throuble's  come  quicker  nor  I  thought  for. 
Betune  the  two  av  us,  ye've  got  a  black  eye,  for 
yer  mother  only  paid  ye  for  takin'  me  advice. 
Forgive  me  me  share  o'  the  blame  while  I  talk 
to  ye  plain,  Lottie." 

Raising  his  eyes,  he  muttered  to  himself,  "  The 
Lord  o'  light  give  me  courage  this  night !"  Then 
he  turned  to  her  : 

"An*  ye  must  answer  me  plain,  Lottie.  Ye 
must  shpake  to-night  plainer  nor  ye  iver  shpoke 
since  yer  firrst  confession.  Answer  me  questions 
like  the  Holy  Virgin,  whose  image  ye  are,  an 
swered  the  angel  o'  the  Lord,  kapin'  northin'  hid. 
Wull  ye  do  ut,  Lottie  ?" 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him. 

"  Wull  ye  answer  me  questions  an'  kape  north- 
in'  back,  mavourneen  ?" 

She  gave  assent  by  an  inclination  of  her  head, 
keeping  her  eyes  upon  his  face. 

"  'R  ye  goin'  to  marry  Peter  Socola,  Lottie  ?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  No  ?  An'  why  not?  D'ye  know  he  has  riches 
an*  jew'ls  an  '11  make  a  fine  lady  av  ye?  I'm 
kapin'  northin'  back  from  ye,  an'  ye  must  answer 
me  thrue.  D'ye  know  all  that,  Lottie  ?" 

"Yas." 


28 


"  An'  ye  don't  want  'im,  nohow  ?" 

"  No." 

"Not  if  'e  was  tarred  wud  melted  gold  an' 
feathered  wud  diamonds  till  Vd  shine  like  a  gov 
ernment  light-house  !  Ye  don't  want  'im  noway, 
sick  norr  well,  alive  norr  dead,  raw  norr  cooked, 
mummied  norr  shtuffed,  divilled  norr  on  the  half- 
shell  !  If  I'm  not  mishtaken,  I  know  yer  sinti- 
mints  on  the  Chinese  question,  an'  that's  about 
the  size  av  ut !  Ye  don't  want  Peter,  not  if  he 
does  come  wud  the  golden  keys  o'  the  kingdom  o' 
this  airth !  Ain't  that  so  ?" 

"Yas." 

"Yiswhut?" 

"I  don't  want." 

"  That's  it ;  ye  don't  want  an'  shtfrft  have  the 
antiquated  ould  pill  coated  for  a  sugar-plum!  Ye 
sha'n't  have  um,  an'  nayther  shall  he  have  you. 
That  much  is  settled,  an'  the  hows  an'  the  whins 
an'  the  wheres  come  aftherr.  An'  now  for  the 
next  question  :  Is  there  onybody  else  ye  like  ?  — 
that  ye'd  like  to  marry,  I  mane  ?" 

She  looked  straight  into  his  eyes  and  answered 
not  a  word. 

How  his  heart  thumped  ! 

"  Shpake,  Lottie.  Out  wud  ut !  Is  there  ony 
body  else  ye  like  betther  nor  all  the  worrld  ?" 

But  still  she,  looking  into  his  eyes,  answered 
not. 

He  flinched  visibly  as  he  put  the  next  question: 

"  Is  it  Joe  Limongi,  Lottie  ?" 


His  heart  was  dancing  a  highland  fling  now. 

With  an  almost  imperceptible,  but  steady  move 
ment,  she  shook  her  head. 

It  was  not  Limongi  —  Limongi  who  sold  canta^ 
loupes  for  her  father  and  liked  to  talk  to  Carlotta. 
Maybe  it  was — 

"  Is  it  Antonino  ?  Shpake  out  an'  answer  me 
thrue.  Is  it  Toney  ?" 

Another  head-shake. 

"  Norr  yer  cousin  Nicolo  ?  Sure  I  niver  seen 
'im  shpakin'  wud  ye." 

The  Madonna  head  shook  again. 

"  Arrah,  musha,  an'  sure  an'  it  can't  be  Pat 
Murphy,  the  bit  av  a  grocery-b'y  at  Keenan's  be- 
yant  —  a  freckled,  red-headed,  blue-eyed  Paddy, 
wud  a  brogue  on  'im  as  thick  as  a  mush  poultice. 
Sure  ye  wudn't  care  for  the  likes  av  a  blazin'  divil 
av  an  Irishman,  wud  ye  ?" 

He  waited,  but  she  answered  nothing  nor  moved 
her  head. 

He  was  frightened.  His  voice  was  lower  when 
he  spoke  again : 

"In  the  name  o'  God,  Lottie,  answer  me,  me 
child.  Ye're  not  demanin'  yerself  wud  love  for 
Pat  Murphy,  are  ye  ?" 

No,  it  was  not  Pat  Murphy.  The  head  shook 
now  with  solemn  decision. 

"  Thin  who,  in  the  name  o'  the  Poydras  Marr- 
ket  ?  I  don't  know  no  more  a-comin'  round  heer. 
Sure  it  can't  be  the  cross-eyed  baker's  man  wud  a 
crooked — " 


30 


It  was  not  the  baker's  boy,  nor  yet  the  young 
American  who  lived  at  the  corner. 

Pat  could  think  of  no  other. 

"  An*  f  o'  the  love  o'  Heaven,  is   it  onybody, 
Lottie  ?" 

She  did  not  answer.    It  was  surely  some  one. 

"  An'  does  he  love  ye,  me  child  ?    An'  are  ye 
engaged  to  um  ?" 

"I  don't  know."    This  slowly,  after  a  pause. 

"  Don't  know  if  ye're  engaged  ?  Is  it  afther 
makin'  a  fool  av  me  ye  are,  Lottie  ?" 

He  was  wounded.  The  girl  saw  it,  and  was 
suddenly  roused. 

"  You  don't  like  me  no  more !"  she  exclaimed, 
her  eyes  flashing.  "  Since  two  years  you  never 
call  me  no  more  *  intend '  —  never  say  you  want 
me — never,  never  say  nothing  !  I  don't  care,  me. 
If  you  want,  I'll  marry  ol'  Pietro  Socola.  Any 
how,  he  loves  me  —  speak  with  me  kind,  an'  talk 
with  my  maw  an'  my  paw  f o'  me.  An'  you — you 
say  nothing !  Anybody  can  come,  say  love- words 
an'  get  me — you  don't  care  !  It's  all  right.  Me, 
I  don't  care  neither,  only  fo'  what  you  took  me 
when  I  was  little  an'  know  no  better,  an'  speak 
love-words  with  me — say  I  am  for  you — fool  me 
like  that — an'  now,  now  when  I  am  mo'  bigger  an' 
know  better,  now  when  I  know  to  love,  you  turn 
your  back!  like  to  see  me  marry  some  strange 
man !  My  God,  if  I  thought  some  bad  man  do 
like  that  to  my  liT  sister  here,  me,  I'd  throw  'er 
right  now  out  the  window  !  Better  so  than  like 


31 


me — me  to  love  always  one,  to  think  only  fo'  one, 
since  I  am  like  this  baby,  an'  you  pet  me,  make 
like  you  love  me,  buy  me  every  pretty  thing — an' 
then  when  I  am  mo'  older,  say  I  am  fo'  you — call 
me  always  your  *  intend ' — before  my  maw  an*  my 
paw  art  everybody  call  me  so — an'  never  in  all  my 
life  speak  no  cross  word  with  me — an'  now,  when 
I  am  only  for  you,  an'  you  know  it,  you  hate  me  /" 

"  Whist !  Sh-h-h !"  Pat  fairly  hissed,  raising  his 
arm  wildly.  "  Hush,  mavourneen !  Ye're  shpakin' 
blasphemy.  Hush-h-h!  Fo'  the  love  o'  God  say 
no  more !" 

For  a  moment  he  was  silent.  Then,  raising 
hands  and  face  heavenward,  he  said,  reverently : 

"  Holy  Mary,  Mother  av  God,  an'  all  the  saints 
an'  angels,  pass  out  in  a  full-dthress  parade  this 
day,  an'  wutness  this  mericle  in  the  little  shanty 
on  S'int  Andthrew  Street !" 

A  sob  stopped  his  throat  for  a  moment,  but  pres 
ently,  in  a  voice  pitifully  weak  and  low,  he  said  : 

"An'  did  ye  think  yer  ould  'Woona'  turned 
ag'in'  ye,  me  purrty — he  that  was  kissin'  the  sole 
av  yer  dirrty  shoe  this  minute !  Sure  I  love  ye 
betther  nor  I  love  me  mother  that's  in  heaven,  an' 
God  knows  I'm  not  takin'  'er  down  a  peg  from  'er 
high  station  in  me  recollection  whin  I  do  be  sayin' 
ut — all  honor  to  'er  name,  though  she's  left  me  a 
couple  o'  shpankin's  shorrt  in  me  ginteel  educa 
tion  !  Sure  'twas  the  love  in  me  heart  that  sint 
me  on  a  retrate  from  ye,  colleen  bawn.  For  two 
yeers  yer  name  thrimbled  on  me  lips,  an'  yet  I 


32 


f eered  to  own  the  truth,  an'  since  I  knowed  ut  for 
a  fact  sure  I  was  afeered  to  show  me  face,  lest  the 
whole  story'd  lake  out  through  the  pores  o'  me 
skin  if  I  kept  me  lips  shut,  an'  ye'd  hate  me  for  a 
dizzy  ould  fool.  An'  now  I  fale — I  fale — my  God, 
I  do  fale  like  a  pig  in  a  puddle,  when  somebody 
frown  'im  a  bookay — sure  he  ate  it  up !  Fo'  the 
love  o'  God,  gi'  me  the  baby  to  howld,  Lottie, 
afore  I  do  take  ye  for  a  bookay!" 

Reaching  forward,  he  actually  took  the  sleep 
ing  child  from  her  arms. 

"  Sure  I'll  howld  'er  for  ballast,  to  kape  me  from 
risin'  into  the  air,  till  I  do  talk  wud  ye  sinsible! 
I'm  that  delerious  I'm  like  a  dthrunken  man  wud 
the  William  o'  Thrimities !  An'  did  ye  think  I 
loved  ye  since  ye  were  like  this  to  fool  ye  ?  Oh, 
but  I  must  talk  wud  ye  like  a  major  to-night,  Lot 
tie."  He  hesitated,  and  when  he  spoke  again  his 
voice  was  touchingly  tender  : 

"  Ye're  but  a  child,  darlint.  I  niver  thrifled  wud 
ye  in  me  life,  an'  I  won't  thrifle  wud  ye  now.  Sure 
an'  if  I  tuck  all  ye're  sayin'  to  me  to-night,  an' 
held  ye  to  ut,  all  I'd  nade  'ud  be  a  pitchfork  an'  a 
tail  for  me  rigimintals  ;  but  I'm  not  lookin'  fo' 
that  line  o'  promotion  !  If  I  was  half  or  a  quarr- 
ter  fit  for  ye,  I'd  thry  to  qualify  the  remainder, 
but  wud  three-quarrters  o'  unfitness  an'  the  ither 
quarrter  bey  ant  redimption  in  a  jar  o'  alcohol,  sure 
I'd  be  a  dog  to  thry  for  ye." 

"  You  don't  want—" 

Her  eyes  flashed  again. 


33 


"  Sh-h-h  !  My  God,  I  do  want,  I  tell  ye,  an' 
from  this  night  for'ard,  till  he  comes  that  ye  like 
betther  nor  me,  ye're  mine — promised  an'  pledged 
over  the  head  o'  this  slapin'  image  o'  yerself  when 
firrst  ye  thricked  me  ould  heart!  I'm  bound  to 
ye,  remimber,  Lottie  mavourneen,  be  me  own  will, 
to  love  ye,  to  help  ye,  to  fight  for  ye — to  die  for 
ye,  the  day  me  grave  'II  be  a  safe  bridge  over  yer 
throubles!  But  ye  must  be  free  yet,  me  purrty 
little  innocent — free  till  ye've  listened  to  love  at 
its  best.  The  old  man  Socola  can't  give  ye  a 
sample  o'  the  genuine  arrticle,  through  his  emp 
ty  gums.  Sure  it's  stale  an'  warrmed  over  in  a 
cracked  oven  an'  all  out  o'  shape  afore  ye  do  get 
it  from  him.  Let  purrty  young  lips  tell  the  story 
an'  purrty  young  eyes  thry  to  hide  ut  from  ye  in 
vain.  Let  one  sing  ut  in  rhyme  an'  anither  clinch 
'is  fists  an'  swear  ut  to  ye,  an'  then  come  an'  tell 
yer  ould  Woona  all  about  ut.  Ye  see,  ye  can't 
fully  undtherstand  till  ye've  had  the  best  lessons 
in  the  language,  no  more  nor  I  c'd  polly  fronsay 
wud  a  Frinchman.  Take  yer  own  time,  me  dar- 
lint,  an'  remimber,  whativer  comes,  Pm  yer  in- 
tinded!  (I'll  say  ut,  if  me  ears  grow  six  inches 
to  the  minute,  to  designate  ass-ification !)  Wull 
ye  thrust  me  now,  an'  do  what  I  say,  an'  kape 
northin'  from  me  ?" 

"  Yas  ;  but  I  don't  want  no  French  lessons." 
"  Aha,  but  sure  I  insist  upon  ut !"  he  replied, 
laughing  heartily  at  the  unconscious  humor  of  her 
naive  reply. 


34 


"  Sure  an'  I've  waked  the  baby  wud  me  thrum- 
pet's  voice.  Take  'er,  darlint,  an'  go,  afore  yer 
mother  calls  ye,  an'  if  she  asks  ye,  tell  'er  I  urrged 
ye  to  marry  ould  gum-drops,  but  ye'll  die  firrst. 
If  I  do  show  me  hand  I  b'lave  she'd  put  me  out ; 
an'  I  think  ye  may  nade  me  manoeuvrin'  more  norr 
a  skirrmish.  Ye  just  come  down  like  a  thousand 
o'  brick  on  him  an'  the  whole  lot,  an'  say  ye 
won't  an?  nobody  can  make  ye!  An'  I'll  see 
ye  through  ut.  Good -night,  an'  God  bless  ye. 
Sh-h-h-h!" 

This  last  was  to  the  baby,  who  fretted  again  in 
the  transfer  to  Carlotta's  arms.  Placing  one  of 
her  hands  over  the  other  about  the  shoulders  of 
the  sleeping  child,  Pat  laid  his  lips  against  them 
reverently. 

"  God  bless  ye — an'  God  bless  ye,"  he  said,  and 
again  as  she  went  down  the  stairs,  "  God  bless 
ye,"  and  he  hobbled  back  to  the  open  window, 
sank  upon  a  chair,  and  in  a  moment  was  sobbing 
— and  sobbing. 

He  felt  so  old,  so  dilapidated,  so  lonely  and  for 
lorn,  so  rough  and  uncouth,  so  far  removed  from 
his  ideal  of  the  man  who  should  dare  aspire  to  the 
love  of  Carlotta — Carlotta,  whose  exquisite  youth 
and  vestal  beauty  stood  her  in  stead  of  all  the 
graces  and  refinements  of  life;  and  yet  he  was  so 
madly  in  love,  so  deliriously  jubilant  over  her  loy 
alty,  which,  no  matter  what  should  come,  was  now 
wholly  his,  that  he  wept  from  a  full  surrender  of 
himself  to  his  conflicting  emotions. 


85 


He  had  sat  here  an  hour,  perhaps,  when  the 
sound  of  excited  talking  below  drew  him  to  the 
head  of  the  stairs.  It  was  the  mother's  voice. 
"  Ogly  !"  sne  was  screaming.  "  Ogly  !  Fo'  God 
sague,  Carlo,  list'n  ad  C'lotta  !  Sayce  Signor  Pie- 
tro  Socola  ees-a  wan  ogly  ol'  man  !  Ogly  ees-a 
northeen  !  Ogly  ees-a  good  fo'  wan  man,  pritty 
ees-a  for  a  woma'.  'F  a  man  ees-a  pritty,  ees-a  no 
coun'.  'Z  god-a  too  strong  eye  fo'  pritty,  haf  to 
look  all-a  day  een-a  glass.  Talk  aboud-a  ogly  ! 
My  God,  loog  ad  yo'  pa !  You  thing  me  I  ees-a 
marry  heem  f  o'  pritty  ?" 

The  voice  passed  out  into  the  other  room.  This 
was  only  an  argument  by  the  way.  Pat  turned, 
and,  going  to  his  shelf,  lit  his  candle,  and,  raising 
his  glass,  moved  it  from  one  angle  to  another, 
studying  his  own  face: 

"An'  I  do  wondher,  fo'  the  love  o'  God,  does 
the  little  darlint  think  me  purrty  ?  Faith  an' 
mebbe  I  am,  but  me  style  is  peculiar  —  a  rustic 
landscape  forninst  a  turrkey-egg  background,  a 
mammoth  cave,  a  natural  bridge  surrounded  by  a 
dinse  perrarie  on  fire,wud  chips  o'snow  in  among 
the  blazes — throuble  on  the  borrders,  but  refuge 
in  the  middle  !  An'  mebbe  that's  what  the  poor 
child  sees  in  ut !" 

The  interpretation  was  touching  in  its  mingling 
of  humor  and  modesty.  The  face,  while  perhaps 
a  stranger  to  recognized  elements  of  beauty,  was 
yet  more  than  attractive  to  the  observer  who  cared 
to  read  its  meanings.  Generosity,  tender-hearted- 


86 


ness,  intelligence,  wit — can  the  face  on  which  these 
are  written  be  called  ugly  ? 

The  little  blue  eyes  twinkled  anew  as  he  dropped 
the  glass  and,  fastening  a  last  thread  in  Carlotta's 
shoe,  hurried  down -stairs.  There  was  no  longer 
occasion  for  retreat,  as  there  was  nothing  to  hide, 
naught  to  reveal. 

A  general  murmur  of  welcome  from  the  family 
greeted  him  when  he  appeared  in  the  shop.  Even 
Socola,  who  had  just  come  in,  grunted  a  pleasant 
inquiry  as  to  his  health. 

"  Sure  an'  I'm  convalescent,  Misther  Socola,"  he 
said,  his  eyes  dancing  as  he  turned  to  the  old  man 
with  a  friendliness  entirely  new  to  him.  "An' 
how's  yersilf  this  day  o'  the  wake  ?" 

"  Oh,  me,  I  am-a  all-a-way  kip  well.  Feel-a  mo' 
young  efera  day." 

"  Droth  an'  they're  all  alike,"  said  Pat  to  him 
self,  as  he  passed  out.  "There's  northin'  like  a 
wife's  grave  for  makin'  over  ould  min.  Sure  if 
I'd  had  the  foresight  to  marry  lame  Biddy  O'Shea 
afore  ould  Brindle  hooked  'er  into  purrgatory,  I'd 
be  as  much  too  young  as  I  am  too  ould  for  love. 
It  takes  an  ould  codger  like  Socola  to  shtand  sich 
a  h'avin'  set-back  an'  land  out  av  the  cradle." 

Instead  of  joining  the  group  at  the  door  this 
evening,  Pat  preferred  to  walk  abroad,  to  get  the 
fresh  open  air  and  to  find  a  quiet  retreat  to  think 
over  things. 

Hailing  a  passing  car  at  Jackson  street,  he  rode 
out  to  its  terminus  at  the  river,  and,  passing  be- 


37 

yond  the  ferry  -  landing  into  a  shadowy  corner 
behind  high  piles  of  freight,  he  sat  down. 

In  the  new  retrospect,  Socola  and  his  little  affair 
dwindled  into  utter  insignificance  as  a  trivial  in 
cident  by  the  way. 

He  sat  here  until  past  midnight,  absorbed  in 
his  own  thoughts,  which,  no  matter  which  way  he 
turned,  seemed  punctuated  with  interrogation- 
points.  "Would  Carlotta  always  love  him? 
Was  it  fair  to  her  to  hope  for  this  ?  Was  it  hu 
man  not  to  hope  ?  What  should  he  do  now  ?" 

The  last  question  was  that  which  remained  with 
him.  "  What  should  he  do  ?" 

He  knew  that  these  revived  energies  and  ambi 
tions  that  filled  him  to  his  finger  -  tips  were  not 
transitory  thrills — unless  the  whole  were  a  dream  ; 
and,  even  so,  he  would  dream  out  an  honorable  so 
lution. 

If  he  were  really  a  man  worthy  a  true  girl's 
passing  fancy  even— to  put  it  safely— and  not  the 
"  ould  granny  "  as  which  he  had  posed  to  himself 
for  all  these  years,  surely  there  must  be  standing- 
room  for  him  somewhere  in  the  world  ;  not  in  the 
rollicking,  frolicking  world  he  had  left,  perhaps, 
where  two  feet  on  which  to  stand  often  fail  to 
keep  its  inhabitants  erect,  but  in  the  industrial 
world  of  workers  on  the  edge  of  which  he  had 
dozed  so  long. 

During  the  week  following,  while  he  worked  at 
his  bench  in  the  Di  Carlo  shop,  he  was  so  en 
grossed  with  his  own  schemes  that,  but  dimly 


38 


conscious  of  his  surroundings,  he  saw  the  old 
suitor,  Socola,  come  and  go,  and  the  young  men 
congregate  about  the  shop  and  disperse,  with  but 
a  passing  smile.  It  was  only  the  diverting  by 
play  in  his  own  drama  —  and  Carlotta's  —  the 
drama  for  whose  leading  part  he  must  equip 
himself. 

Strange  to  say,  the  signora  had  never  interro 
gated  him  in  regard  to  his  interview  with  Car- 
lotta,  presumably  in  behalf  of  Socola.  The  girl's 
sustained  attitude  of  resistance  was  evidence 
enough  of  its  result.  So  far  as  Pat  observed,  the 
affair  was  drifting  without  special  incident. 

The  little  father  Di  Carlo  still  opened  his  best 
old  wine  for  Pietro  on  Sundays,  and  the  signora 
made  up  in  attention  for  whatever  was  lacking  in 
Carlotta. 

So  a  week  passed,  during  which  Pat  had  had 
scarcely  a  private  word  with  the  girl. 

"  Pst !  Come  heer,  Lottie,"  he  called,  as  she 
was  passing  through  the  shop  on  Saturday  after 
noon. 

"  Sit  down  an'  putt  up  yer  fut  till  I  take  yer 
measure." 

She  obeyed,  coloring  as  she  did  so,  for  she 
knew  the  request  was  only  a  ruse.  Did  he  not 
have  hanging  behind  his  door  a  row  of  lasts  made 
for  her  feet  at  every  stage  of  growth  from  her  in 
fancy  till  now  ? 

"  Now,"  said  he,  "  while  I  do  thrick  the  inquis 
itive  wud  me  tape-line,  Lottie,  I  want  to  talk  wud 


39 


ye.  Don't  say  northin'  to  nobody  norr  let  on  ye 
know  ut,  but  I'm  goin'  off  for  a  thrip  for  a  wake 
or  so.  I'll  say  I'm  goin'  for  me  health,  but  sure 
it's  wealth  I'm  afther.  (Faith  an'  if  I  do  lie 
about  the  firrst  letter  o'  the  worrd,  I  do  spind  the 
remainder  in  repintance.)  I'm  lookin'  out  for  a 
betther  job  norr  the  exterrnal  tratement  av  corrns 
an'  bunions — poulticin'  over  wan  man's  worrk  in 
the  corrner  av  anither  man's  shop." 

"  I'm  glad,"  she  said,  and  the  rosy  color  in  her 
face  turned  to  scarlet. 

"  I  knowed  ye'd  be  glad,  mavourneen." 

"Where  you  goin'?" She  spoke  quickly. 

"  I'm  goin'  up  the  Jackson  railroad  to  visit  me 
frind  the  Dutchman,  jist.  They  tell  me  he  has  a 
boomin'  thrade  at  Chattawa  in  the  shoe  business, 
an'  he's  only  a  yeer  there,  an'  sure  an'  begorra 
where  Hans  Schmidt  '11  go  I'm  safe  to  vinture, 
for  he  an'  'is  ould  frau  are  but  two  solid  lumps 
o'  prudence." 

"  When  you  goin'  ?" 

"  I'm  off  airly  o'  Monda'  morrnin',  plaze  God, 
an'  look  for  me  back  whin  ye  do  heer  me  peg  on 
the  banquette.  I'm  goin'  a  -  scrimmagin'  an'  a- 
skirrmishin'  till  I  find  what  I  want — a  barefutted 
town  a-wailin'  for  a  wan-legged  shoemaker  ;  an' " 
— lowering  his  voice — "  Lottie  mavourneen,  be  a 
good  girrl  till  Woona  comes  back,  d'ye  heer  ?  An' 
let  no  one  bully  ye  into  listenin'  to  the  ould  man's 
complaint.  Remimber,  nobody  can  make  ye,  if  ye 
won't.  If  they  helt  ye  up  afore  the  praste,  sure 


40 


ye  cud  shtiffen  out  into  a  dead  faint  an'  they'd  be 
compelled  to  carry  ye  out,  Miss  Di  Carlo  —  an' 
don't  ye  forget  that." 

"I'm  not  'fraid.  My  maw  an'  my  paw  knows 
me.  They  won't  try  nothin'  like  that  on  me." 

"Ye're  solid  on  that,  colleen.  An'  now  I'll 
1'ave  me  adthress  on  a  shlip  o'  paper,  an'  in  case 
ye  do  nade  a  friend,  sind  me  a  line.  Art  now" 
— in  a  louder  tone,  raising  his  tape-line —  "  nine 
inches  an'  a  quarrter  across  the  inshtep — the  same 
from  heel  to  toe."  And  lower  again,  "  I  seen  the 
madam  a-peepin'  twice-t ;  mebbe  ye  betther  run 
off  now — me  purrty  little  intinded." 

The  last,  in  a  whisper,  just  reached  her  ear, 
spreading  o  fresh  blush  over  her  face  as  she 
arose. 


Ill 

Pat's  business  tour  extended  itself  from  one  to 
two  weeks.  The  idea  of  establishing  himself  in 
some  suburban  town  was  not  new  to  him,  but 
it  had  never  before  seemed  quite  worth  while. 
His  really  worthy  but  conservative  friends,  the 
Schmidts,  though  evidently  quietly  prosperous, 
were  non-committal,  and  would  give  no  advice. 
His  impressions  were  favorable,  however,  and  he 
returned  to  New  Orleans  buoyant  with  promising 
schemes. 

It  was  after  dark  when  he  reached  the  city,  and 


-11 


as  he  approached  the  Di  Carlo's  a  row  of  carriage- 
lights  before  the  door  startled  him  so  that  he  felt 
in  danger  of  falling.  Something  unusual  was 
happening.  If  any  one  had  died  he  would  have 
heard :  besides,  who  ever  heard  of  a  night  funeral, 
except  under  extraordinary  circumstances?  Could 
it  be  a  wedding  f  He  had  had  a  strange  forebod 
ing  of  ill.  Why  had  he  left  Carlotta  ? 

Reaching  the  house,  he  hesitated  without,  in 
the  shadow  of  an  open  shutter.  He  must  have  a 
moment  to  still  the  mad  beating  of  his  heart. 

The  window  was  up,  and  through  the  Venetian 
blinds  the  scene  which  greeted  him  was  of  the 
utmost  confusion. 

Socola,  attired  in  his  dress  suit  and  white  kid 
gloves,  bloodless  as  yellow  wax  and  blue  of  lip, 
was  excitedly  walking  up  and  down  the  room. 
About  him,  standing  in  squads  or  sitting  in  groups, 
whispering,  was  a  gathering  of  people,  among 
whom  Pat  recognized  some  of  the  Di  Carlo  kin 
dred,  while  others  were  strangers.  All  were  in 
tensely  excited. 

Just  as  Socola  reached  a  point  near  the  window, 
a  young  woman  crossing  from  the  other  side  of 
the  room  stopped  him. 

Pat  recognized  her  immediately  as  a  cousin  of 
Carlotta,  and,  by  a  coincidence,  one  who  bore  her 
full  name. 

"I'm-a  shore  I  woun'-a  grief  myself  'boud-a 
Carlotta,  signer,"  she  said,  as  she  excitedly  fanned 
her  dark  fat  face  with  a  light-blue  feather  fan. 


And  so  Carlotta  was  dead!  Pat  leaned  against 
the  house  for  support. 

But  wait.  The  old  man  was  answering  in 
Italian : 

"  Grief  !  I  grieve  not  for  her.  She  may  go  to 
the  devil.  I  care  not  for  her,  but  for  myself !  It 
is  the  disgrace!  I  have  come  here  to  marry  her, 
and  if  I  wait  all  night  I  will  have  her !  Money 
is  nothing  to  me.  I  can  pay  the  police — order 
the  detective  force  out — scour  the  city." 

The  girl  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  Oh,  well, 
'z-god-a  just-a  so  good  fish  in  the  riv'  'z-a  come 
oud." 

"But  I  am  not  to  be  mocked!"  The  old  man 
was  hoarse  with  passion.  There  was  a  majesty 
in  his  wrath  which  might  even  have  won  respect 
from  Carlotta  could  she  have  seen  him. 

"She  shall  not  mock  me!"  he  continued.  "Every 
laborer  down  at  the  Picayune  Tier — every  man  on 
the  luggers — all  my  business  comrades — everybody 
knows  the  name  of  Carlotta  Di  Carlo,  and  that  I 
come  to  marry  her  to-night.  I  have  her  mother's 
promise.  She  must  be  found  !" 

"Carlotta  Di  Carlo  ees-a  no  gread-a  name," 
she  replied,  still  in  English,  toying  with  her  fan. 
"  Z-a  my  name  just-a  the  same  ligue-a  my  cous'n. 
Neva  ees-a  bring  me  sudge-a  so  gread-a  good- 
luck."  Just  here  the  door  opened  at  Pat's  side, 
and  a  man  stepped  out.  Fearing  discovery,  he 
immediately  entered  the  house,  where  a  chorus  of 
exclamations  greeted  him : 


43 


"  Carlotta  ees-a  run  away  !" 

"Z-a  jump  oud-a  window  !" 

" run  off!" 

"  Cand  fine-a  no  place." 

In  the  back  room  the  mother  was  noisily  be 
moaning  her  misfortune,  sometimes  in  Italian  and 
then  in  English. 

"  Come  in,  fo'  God  sague,  Meester  Pad !"  she 
cried,  when  she  saw  him.  "  Come-a  see  wad-a 
troub'  we  god-a  theeze  day.  Come,  loog !"  Draw 
ing  him  into  the  back  room,  she  pointed  to  the 
bed,  upon  which  was  spread  an  array  of  finery. 

"  Loog — loog  here  1  All-a  fine  silg  dress,  silg 
pock-a-hankcher — silg  stockin' — silg  hat — keed-a 
glove — keed-a  shoe — gol'  watch-a  chain — gol'  ring 
— loog !  Everytheen-a  so  fine  Signor  Socola  ees-a 
bring  Carlotta  fo'  marry  weeth-a  heein  to-nighd 
— an'  C'lotta  ees-a  run  away  !  Sez  to  me,  *  Mus-a 
lock-a  door  fo'  wash-a  myselve ' — just  a  ligue 
thad — an'  ees-a  climb  oud-a  window  an'  gone! 
Oh,  my  God,  me  Pm-a  crezzy !" 

"  An'  had  she  given  her  consint,  ma'am  ?"  Pat 
managed  to  ask,  at  last.  He  had  only  listen 
ed  yet. 

"  Consen' !  Geev  -  a  consen' !  No !  Geev  -  a 
northeen !  C'lotta  ees-a  god  on'y  six-a-teen  year. 
Wad-a  chil'  ligue  that  knowce  aboud-a  man? 
Don'  know  northeen  boud-a  consen' !" 

"That's  whut  I  say,  ma'am!"  It  was  all  he 
could  do  to  hold  himself,  but  he  remembered  her 
he  loved,  and  in  her  interest  was  silent. 


44 


His  only  fear,  and  this  was  slight,  was  that  they 
should  find  her. 

A  half -hour  passed  slowly.  At  any  unusual 
sound  in  the  front  room  every  one  looked  anx 
iously  towards  the  door,  as  in  a  church  when  the 
bridal  party  is  due. 

Presently  a  distinct  and  sudden  movement  and 
a  renewed  hum  of  voices  indicated  that  something 
had  happened. 

It  was  true.     Something  was  happening. 

The  old  man  Socola,  leading  by  the  hand  the 
other  Carlotta,  the  cousin,  entered  the  room  and 
approached  the  bed.  With  a  dignified  inclination 
of  his  head  to  the  company,  and  pointing  to  the 
display  of  gifts,  he  said  (he  spoke  always  in 
Italian) : 

"  I  present  to  Carlotta  Di  Carlo  those  presents 
which  are  marked  in  the  name  of  Carlotta  Di 
Carlo,  and  when  she  is  dressed  as  my  bride  we 
will  drive  to  the  church.  The  announcement  in 
to-morrow's  papers  shall  prove  that  Pietro  Socola 
has  not  been  disappointed." 

Hesitating  here,  and  gathering  emphasis  by  a 
lowered  voice,  as  he  glanced  with  menacing  brow 
about  him,  he  continued  : 

"  What  happens  here  to-night  is  in  the  bosom 
of  Mafia  society !"  They  could  have  heard  a 
pin  drop  now.  "Mafia's  children  can  keep  her 
secrets."  He  paused  again  and  looked  from  one 
to  another.  "  But  if  there  is  a  Judas  here — if 
one  word  passes  that  door — the  knives  of  a  hundred 


45 


of  Mafia's  sons  are  ready  to  avenge  it !  And  I  am 
Pietro  Jesns  Adolpho  Socola  who  speaks !" 

Pat  was  the  first  to  break  the  death-like  silence 
which  followed. 

"An'  accept  me  warrmest  congratulations, 
Misther  Socola,"  he  said,  stepping  forward  and 
grasping  the  old  man's  white-gloved  hand. 

Others  followed  closely.  Congratulations  were 
now  in  order,  the  new  bride-elect  receiving  her 
accidental  honors  with  ill-concealed  pride. 

A  fresh  wedding-stir  arose,  but  beneath  it  all 
was  a  suppressed  moan,  like  the  irresistible  under 
tow  of  a  playful  sea.  The  missing  girl,  the  lost 
wealth,  the  mystery,  the  humiliation,  Mafia's 
authoritative  command  of  secrecy,  with  its  death- 
penalty—all  these,  as  elements  of  possible  tragedy, 
were  felt,  even  by  the  satellites  of  the  new  bride, 
and  showed  themselves  in  the  subdued  air  and 
blanched  faces  of  the  family  of  the  supplanted. 

Pat  was  the  happiest  person  present,  excepting 
perhaps  the  fat  little  creature  who  in  the  next 
room  was  holding  her  breath  and  panting  while 
one  squeezed,  another  fanned  her,  and  a  third 
burst  off  hooks  and  eyes  in  the  determined  effort 
to  prove  that  the  bridal  gown  designed  for  Car- 
lotta  Di  Carlo  had  not  proved  a  misfit. 

It  was  a  relief  to  all  when  finally  the  wedding- 
party  started  off. 

Those  who  came  in  the  back  carriages  rode 
now  in  front,  the  family  of  Carlo  Di  Carlo  bring 
ing  up  the  rear  as  relations  of  the  bride — "  like 


46 


the  asses  which  always  follow  on  the  tail  of  the 
Rex  procession  on  Mardi  Gras,"  Pat  heard  the 
little  father  say  in  Italian  to  the  signora,  adding, 
as  he  and  his  sons  got  into  the  last  carriage,  "  You 
have  made  us  a  pretty  pack  of  fools  !" 

There  was  that  in  the  husband's  tone  that  made 
the  wife  keep  silent,  but  when  they  had  gone  she 
turned  to  Pat  and  burst  into  violent  weeping. 

For  once  a  woman's  tears  were  powerless  to 
move  him.  Turning  abruptly,  he  left  her  with 
out  a  word,  and  mounted  the  stairs  to  his  own 
room. 

In  a  moment,  however,  he  heard  her  following. 
She  was  not  to  be  so  easily  eluded.  She  must 
have  an  audience.  Her  habit  of  finding  relief  by 
pouring  her  complaint  into  Pat's  ears  was  too 
firmly  fixed  to  be  given  up  at  this  crisis,  when  her 
ignominious  failure  seemed  more  than  she  could 
bear.  Her  cup  had  been  spared  no  possible  dreg 
of  bitterness,  even  to  the  summoning  of  the  hated 
family  of  her  brother-in-law  Di  Carlo  to  witness 
and  reap  a  triumph  in  her  defeat.  This  was  the 
refinement  of  cruelty  ;  and  then,  as  a  finishing- 
touch,  came  Mafia's  command.  They  dare  never 
explain.  Those  stuck-up  Toney  Di  Carlos  might 
give  the  world  any  story  they  chose  but  the  true 
one — the  one  they  would  love  to  keep. 

When  she  appeared  before  him,  panting  from 
her  hasty  ascent,  Pat  thought  she  resembled  noth 
ing  so  much  as  a  hyena  at  bay. 

"  Haf  to  lis'n  ad  me,  Meester  Pad,"  she  began, 


47 


dropping  into  a  chair.  "  God  Almighty  ees-a 
turn  'is  back  on  me  to-nighd — pud-a  me  down 
ligue  wan  dog  biffore  all-a  doze  nasty  Toney  Di 
Carlos !" 

"God  Almighty  done  ut,  d'ye  say?  Ye're 
pay  in'  yersilf  a  purrty  round  complimint  for  a 
wake-day,  Misthress  Di  Carlo  !  I'd  kape  that  for 
a  Sunday,  till  we  cud  buy  ye  a  tin  halo  an'  putt 
on  our  Sunday  clothes  an'  say  our  beads  to  yer 
Holiness." 

His  wrath  oiled  his  tongue.  Of  course  she  did 
not  understand. 

"  'Z-a  no  time  f o'  play,  Meester  Pad.  Fo'  God 
sague,  you  god-a  no  heart?  See  wan-a  poor 
woma'  in-a  so  gread-a  troub' !" 

"  I  have,  ma'ain,  a  palpitator  in  the  vicinity 
o'  me  left  lung,  but  it's  engaged  at  prisent  in  be 
half  o'  the  slip  av  a  child  that's  turrned  out  av  'er 
father's  house  on  a  darrk  night  to  escape  worrse 
nor  a  livin'  death  at  the  hand  av  'er  mother. 
'Tis  a  black  night,  ma'am,  an'  where  is  the  child  ?" 
"  My  God  !"  her  whisper  was  heavy  with  pas 
sion,  "you  tague-a  side  weeth-a  C'lotta?  Me,  I 
don'  care  where  ees  !  Hofe-a  the  dev's  got  'er  !" 
"  An'  I'll  warrant  ye,  ma'am,  he  has  an  orrgan- 
ized  detective  forrce  out  in  searrch  o'  the  likes 
av  her  to-night,  ye  may  be  sure  o'  that !  An' 
plinty  illuminated  transums  above  hell's  sky- 
parrlors  '11  open  their  thrap-doors  to  welcome  'er 
in,  wud  music  borrowed  from  heaven  to  entrap 
an  angel !"  His  voice  trembled  with  wrath.  "Sure 


48 


they'll  give  'er  'er  pick  av  bridal  dresses,  an'  a 
sate  at  a  faste  where  the  bread  she'll  ate  '11  be  as 
honest  as  that  ye  offered  'er — raised  from,  the  same 
leaven  an'  at  the  same  price  !" 

"  Wad  you  talk,  Meester  Pad  ?  '  Brida '  dress' 
an'-a  same  price  !'  Thing  yo'  head  ees-a  gone 
wrong  !  'Z  no  mo'  rich-a  man's  wan'-a  C'lotta. 
Wad-a  you  say  ?" 

"I  say  the  divil  has  a  shtandin'  ordther  out  for 
brides,  ma'am,  an'  the  city  strates  av  a  darrk  night 
are  his  harvest-field,  an'  whin  an  angel  is  thrapped 
unbeknowinst  to  his  bed,  he  does  mock  heaven 
wild  fresh  fireworrks  an'  ring  the  bells  o'  hell  for 
a  holiday  !  'Tis  tin  o'clock,  mother  Di  Carlo,  an' 
rainin'  cats  an'  dogs  this  minute.  Ye  have  a 
child,  a  fair  bit  av  a  daughter,  out  hidin'  from  ye. 
She  knows  no  people.  'Tis  the  firrst  time  nine 
o'clock  iver  missed  'er  from  her  little  thrundle- 
bed.  Can  ye  tell  me  in  whose  back  alley  I'll  find 
'er  skulkin',  like  an  odd  cat,  an'  bring  'er  home  to 
the  mother  that's  grievin'  after  'er  ?" 

His  passion  calmed  the  woman.  She  looked 
dazed,  but  answered  him  nothing. 

"  If  yer  Divinity  '11  parrdon  me  shirrt-slaves 
till  I  do  putt  on  me  rain-coat,  I'll  shtep  out 
mesilf  an'  see  if  bechance  her  ould  granny  can 
thrace  'er." 

Crossing  the  room,  he  proceeded  to  raise  the 
lid  of  his  trunk,  but  it  resisted.  It  was  fastened 
— on  the  inside  ! 

For  a  second  only  voice  and  wit  failed  him. 


49 


"Ye'll  excuse  me  manners,  ma'am,  fer  lavin* 
me  saloon-pan  Id1  whin  I've  company,  but  I've 
a  call  to  enlist  on  the  opposition  to  the  divil's 
forrce,"  he  said,  and,  with  a  bow,  "  Wull  ye  walk 
firrst,  Misthress  Di  Carlo  ?" 

Sniffling,  but  silent,  the  woman  arose  and  pre 
ceded  him  down  the  stairs. 

Following,  he  hurried  into  the  street,  but  re 
turned  in  a  moment. 

"  Betther  go  back  for  me  rubber  boot  an'  me 
bumberel,"  said  he.  "  Sure  the  strates  are  flowin' 
wud  wather."  And  hastily  he  reascended  the 
stairs. 

"  Whst  !"  he  called,  tapping  gently  upon  the 
trunk,  and  "  sh-h-h  !"  as  the  girl's  head  pushed 
up  the  lid. 

"Glory  be  to  God  Almighty!"  he  whispered,  as 
he  carefully  aided  her  to  rise  from  her  cramped 
position,  though  she  remained  sitting  in  the 
trunk. 

"  An'  did  me  ould  box  harber  ye  again,  me  little 
wan  ?  An'  why  didn't  ye  write  me  the  letther  ?" 

"  I  never  knowed  I  haf  to  get  married  till  to 
night.  My  maw  sez  to  me  I  mus'  marry  Socola, 
on  'coun'  o'  my  po'  lill  brothers  an'  sisters  an' — " 

"Sh-h!     Spake  aisy,  mavourneen." 

"  Then  I  seen  my  only  chance  was  to  run  away. 
It  was  dark  outside.  I  was  afraid.  So  then  I 
thought  about  the  trunk,  an'  I  climbed  up  over 
the  back  shed — " 

"  Niver  mind  now,  darlint.     I  musht  go  ;  the 


50 


madam  '11  be  af  ther  missin'  me.  But  you  stay  heer. 
Make  yersilf  at  home  to-night  in  me  ould  din.  I'll 
shlape  below  in  the  shop,  an'  tell  thim  I'm  on  the 
watch  for  ye,  which  '11  be  God's  truth.  Ye're  not 
to  make  yer  appeerance  till  she's  wapin'  an  wailin' 
for  a  sight  av  ye.  Shtrike  no  light,  an'  off  wud 
yer  shoes.  I'll  manoeuvre  below  -  stairs,  an'  ye 
kape  silence  above." 

"  You  think  the  old  man  '11  come  back  for  me  to 
morrow  again  ?"  she  asked,  anxiously. 

"  Heavens  above !  An'  didn't  ye  know  he's  mar 
ried  to  yer  cousin  Carlotta?" 

The  tension  had  been  so  great  that,  at  this  sud 
den  relief,  the  girl,  trembling,  bent  her  head  upon 
her  arm  over  the  edge  of  the  trunk,  and  fell  to 
sobbing  hysterically. 

Pat  was  frightened  lest  she  should  be  overheard, 
for  he  dreaded  the  mother's  unspent  rage.  He 
laid  his  hand  tenderly  upon  her  head. 

"  Sh-h !  The  throuble's  over  now,  darlint,  an* 
Woona's  heer  to  thrash  onybody  but  yer  mother, 
an'  it's  she  that  mustn't  heer  ye  !" 

A  sound  of  loud  talking  below  reassured  him, 
however.  The  father  and  brothers  had  returned 
from  the  wedding. 

Carlotta  heard  it,  and  the  distraction  soon  quiet 
ed  her.  With  Pat's  aid  she  presently  arose,  and 
together  they  cautiously  approached  the  opening. 

In  the  tumult  the  father's  voice  prevailed.  He 
spoke  in  Italian  : 

"What  am  I,  that  my  wife  lies  to  me?    You 


51 


said  the  child  consented.  You  lied,  lied!  I  told 
you  you  should  not  compel  her.  You  are  paid. 
I  am  glad.  But  I  want  my  daughter.  Where  is 
the  child  ?  What  can  I  do  ?  Where  I  go  to  seek 
her  I  spread  an  ugly  tale  —  Carlotta,  the  pretty 
daughter  of  Di  Carlo,  is  not  in  her  father's  house 
at  night.  A  sweet  story,  that !  Oh,  my  wife  is  a 
fine  schemer  —  got  a  rich  husband  for  Toney's 
ugly  girl  with  the  pimply  face.  Ha !  she  is 
kind,  yes — I  am  glad,  but,  only,  I  want  my  lit 
tle  girl." 

In  the  midst  of  this,  but  not  heeding  it,  the 
woman  was  contesting  her  position  in  broken  Eng 
lish —  an  appeal  for  sympathy  to  the  English- 
speaking  boys,  her  sons. 

"Fo'  who  ees  I  lie?"  she  screamed,  between 
sobs.  "  Wad  ees-a  money  fo'  me  ?  Rich  or  po' 
ees-a  all-a  same  to  me.  God-a  rock-a  cradle  fo' 
you-— dthaz  all !  'F  I  lie,  'z  fo'  you,  an'  fo'  C'lotta 
selve.  An'  now  everybody  ees  -  a  blame  me  ! 
Weesh,  me,  I  was  dead.  You  ees-a  curse  me, 
Meester  Pad  ees-a  sassy  me  to  my  face,  an'  all  on 
'coun'  o'  C'lotta !" 

"  Shp !"  hissed  the  old  man.  "  No  more !  Show 
me  my  child,  and  we  speak  never  of  this  again. 
I  am  not  blameless.  I  consented,  but  not  to  force 
her.  You  were  tempted,  and  she  saved  you.  It 
is  well.  We  have  not  sold  our  first  babe  to  feed 
the  last.  But  I  want  her  here.  I  want  my  little 
girl." 

"  I'm  goin',  Woona,"  said  Carlotta,  starting  sud- 


52 


denly.  She  would  have  descended  the  stairs,  but 
Pat  held  her  arm. 

"  Not  from  heer,  darlint.  Ye've  kept  the  thrunk 
secret  for  a  dozen  years — " 

She  understood,  and,  agile  as  a  cat,  had  dashed 
by  him  in  the  other  direction,  and  was  out  the  win 
dow  on  the  roof  before  he  realized  her  intention. 
She  would  return  as  she  had  come. 

Pat  hobbled  after  her  to  the  window.  She  had 
just  reached  the  corner  of  the  low  shed  (where 
an'  overhanging  fig -tree  afforded  safe  and  pri 
vate  transit  to  the  ground),  when  she  suddenly 
returned  and  laid  her  hand  on  the  Irishman's 
arm. 

"Don't  be  mad.  You  are  good.  I  like  you, 
Woona,  but  I  never  knowed — " 

She  began  to  cry. 

"  I  never  knowed  my  paw  liked  me  before  ;  haf 
to  go  to  him." 

Pat  was  choked  with  emotion,  and  before  he 
could  answer  her  the  slim  shadow  of  the  girl  had 
flitted  down,  and  was  merged  into  the  broad  shad 
ow  of  the  tree. 

Though  the  rain  was  over,  the  night  was  dark. 

Pat's  heart  was  thumping  so  when  he  returned 
to  his  vantage-ground  at  the  head  of  the  stairs 
that  he  had  to  sit  down. 

Soon  he  heard  a  timid  knock  at  the  street  door 
—  Carlotta  was  a  cute  one  —  then  a  rush  of  boys' 
heavy  feet,  a  clank  of  iron  as  the  hook  was  raised, 
and  now,  through  the  open  door,  loud  crying,  like 


53 


the  heart-sobs  of  a  little  child.  So  Carlotta  met 
her  father. 

By  ducking  his  head  very  low,  Pat  saw,  for  a 
second  only,  the  little  reticent  old  man  with  out 
stretched  arms  going  to  meet  her  ;  and  he,  sitting 
alone  on  the  top  step,  blubbered  like  a  school-boy, 
but  no  one  heard  him. 

Pat  could  scarcely  realize  that  he  had  been  home 
hardly  three  hours  when,  a  few  minutes  later,  he 
looked  at  his  watch  to  find  it  but  eleven  o'clock. 

So  far  as  he  could  discover,  the  affair  was  never 
alluded  to  in  the  household  afterwards ;  but  for  a 
long  time  between  himself  and  the  signora  a  dis 
tinct  coldness  was  felt  which  made  him  uncom 
fortable. 

His  anger  towards  her  had  soon  melted,  but  he 
wanted  it  forgotten.  She  was  no  worse  than  many 
rich  mothers.  Her  methods  were  only  a  little 
more  crude. 

He  had  easily  forgiven  her,  since  she  had  failed. 
Though  she  had  had  no  conception  of  the  force  of 
his  words,  she  realized  that  he  had  blamed  and 
silenced  her — had  "  sassied  her  to  her  face  " — and 
it  was  hard  to  forget  it.  And  then,  too,  her  re 
lations  were  somewhat  embarrassed  with  all  who 
knew  of  the  affair. 

"I  wonder,"  said  he  one  evening  a  few  weeks 
later,  as  he  sat  near  her  at  the  door — "I  wonder 
wud  the  madam  wear  a  pair  o'  shoes  o'  my  makin'  ? 
I'll  guarantee  I  cud  make  ye  a  bully  pair  '11  do  ye 


54 


through  the  next  christening  an'  ye'll  be  dthrag- 
gin'  'em  slip-shod  till  the  wan  afther  that  ag'in." 

"  Oh,  you  ees-a  so  bad,  Meester  Pad !"  she  ex 
claimed,  with  a  hearty  laugh  delightfully  like  the 
familiar  ring  of  old  times.  "  How  much-a  price 
you  goin'-a  charge  me  ?" 

"  Charrge  ye  !  Well,  I'll  be  dog-goned  if  ye're 
hot  complimintary  !  I'll  charrge  ye  enough,  sure, 
whin  ye  do  bring  me  yer  ordher  for  a  pair,  but 
whin  I  do  make  ye  a  presint  I'll  ask  ye  a  returrn 
o'  what  I  do  putt  into  the  job — a  free  confession 
o'  frindly  feelin',  jist.  Whut  do  ye  say,  ma'am?" 

Laughing,  she  stuck  out  her  heavy  foot.  "'Z  big 
'nough  speak  fo'  heemselve  !" 

And  so  the  old  relations  were  restored. 

Pat  had  been  especially  desirous  of  this  recon 
ciliation  because  of  his  contemplated  change  of 
residence,  which  of  course  the  signora  did  not  sus 
pect. 

Exactly  what  arrangement  would  result  from 
his  reconnoitring  tour  he  did  not  yet  know,  but 
the  matter  was  unexpectedly  decided  one  day  by 
the  receipt  of  a  formal  business  proposal  of  part 
nership  with  his  German  friend,  Hans  Schmidt. 

The  old  fellow  was  growing  decrepit,  and  wished 
to  rest.  The  offer  was  framed  with  characteristic 
caution,  and  its  terms  were  hard,  but  in  his  pres 
ent  mood  Pat  was  all  the  better  pleased,  and  so 
the  matter  was  settled. 

He  would  still  call  the  Di  Carlo  garret  "home," 
and  would  come  on  Sunday  mornings  and  stay 


55 


until  Monday.     Chattawa  was  but  a  few  hours' 
run  from  the  city. 

All  the  signora's  sentiments  towards  him  were 
sensitized  and  perfumed  with  the  generous  odor 
of  fresh  shoe  -  leather  when  Pat  told  her  of  his 
plans,  and  she  said  so  many  touching  things  about 
breaking  up  the  family,  and  the  like,  that  he  add 
ed  forgetfulness  to  his  forgiveness  of  her  sin,  and 
they  almost  wept  upon  each  other's  bosoms  when 
he  went  away. 


IV 

Time  dragged  rather  heavily  at  the  Di  Carlos' 
after  Pat's  departure.  There  was  no  one  now  al 
ways  ready  to  give  a  humorous  turn  to  common 
place  things — to  raise  a  playful  breeze  over  the 
dull  monotony  of  every-day  life.  Whether  the 
baby  bumped  her  head  or  a  customer  quarrelled 
over  his  bill,  the  occurrence,  served  up  with  Pat's 
piquant  wit,  had  always  become  a  delightful 
joke. 

It  is  possible  that  not  even  Carlotta  missed  him 
more  than  did  the  signora.  And  the  little  family 
toes  missed  him!  Dainty  pink  buttons  that  had 
not  been  allowed  to  see  the  light  came  all  the  way 
out,  as  if  to  inquire  for  the  absent  Pat,  and  grew 
familiar  with  the  floor  and  the  banquette,  like  other 
little  dago  children's  toes.  And  yet  the  signora 
vowed  that  she  had  done  nothing  but  pay  out 


56 


money  for  shoe-patching  ever  since  Mr.  Pat  went 
away. 

In  the  evenings  the  young  men  and  boys  still 
came  and  laughed  and  talked  with  Caiiotta. 

At  first  there  had  been  with  occasional  expres 
sions  of  surprise,  inquisitive  glances,  at  Socola's 
marriage  to  the  other,  but  the  mother's  flat  and 
surprised  denial  of  her  Carlotta's  ever  having  been 
thought  of  in  so  absurd  a  connection  soon  silenced 
all  concern  about  the  matter. 

Pat  came  usually  on  Saturday  night  or  Sunday, 
and  was  always  an  honored  guest.  "  The  mad 
am"  never  tired  of  rehearsing  to  him  the  events 
of  the  week  or  exhibiting  the  baby's  last  tooth  or 
promising  gums,  nor  did  she  ever  fail  to  hold  out 
for  his  inspection  "the  mos'-a  easy-walkin'  pai' 
shoe  ees-a  ever  was-a  wear." 

And  so  weeks  lapped  over  weeks  until  months 
had  passed  and  folded  likewise  one  upon  the  other. 

Carlotta  was  still  to  her  fond  old  lover  a  dainty 
little  saint  within  a  high  niche,  and  when  he  said 
his  "  Hail  Mary  "  at  night,  as  he  had  tried  to  do 
ever  since  he  had  confessed  himself  in  love,  he 
kept  seeing  her  picture  sitting  in  the  garret  win 
dow  in  the  moonlight,  and  wondering  how  far  his 
piety  was  at  fault.  Even  irreligious  men  say 
prayers  when  they  are  honestly  and  purely  in 
love.  Pat  was  only  unreligious. 

He  still  told  himself,  as  he  told  her,  that  she 
was  free,  and  must  listen  untrammelled  to  any 
story  of  love  that  should  please  her;  and  yet, 


57 


when  he  laid  by  small  sums  of  money,  he  thought, 
"  How  purrty  it'll  shtuff  out  'er  little  pockut- 
book !"  or,  "I  wondher  wull  she  lave  ut  in  a  dhry- 
goods  shop  or  hide  ut  in  an  ould  shtockun' ! — but, 
savin'  or  shpindin',  sure  she'll  be  handlin'  'er  own, 
God  bless  her." 

He  expected  to  find  young  men  sitting  around 
the  shop  in  the  evenings  when  he  came  home,  and 
the  sound  of  an  accordion  or  flute  or  tambourine 
or  familiar  laughter  reaching  him,  as  he  approached 
the  house,  served  but  to  identify  the  crowd. 

It  was  only  when  the  accordion  became  his  in 
variable  greeting,  when,  even  descending  upon 
the  family  in  the  middle  of  the  week,  he  found  it 
still  there,  that  he  began  to  consider  that  Carlotta 
had  never  told  him  about  this  young  musician, 
except  to  give  his  name  in  answer  to  a  question. 

It  seemed  absurd  to  think  seriously  of  so  trivial 
a  matter ;  and  yet,  when  a  long  time  passed  and 
the  accordion,  long-winded  or  short  of  breath  ac 
cording  to  the  player's  mood,  sent  its  voice  out 
panting  or  trilling  to  meet  him,  he  began  to  hate 
the  sound  of  it,  and  to  wish  that  Carlotta  would 
sometimes  talk  upon  the  subject. 

She  had  told  him  how  young  Alessandro  Socon- 
neti,  who  won  a  prize  in  the  lottery,  had  wanted 
her,  and  how  Joe  Zucca,  the  peanut-vender,  had 
vainly  insisted  on  her  love,  and  even  of  her  cousin 
Angelo,  who  had  tried  to  coax  her  to  forget  his 
kinship.  Why  had  she  forgotten  to  mention  this 
strange  boy  who  played  the  accordion  ? 


58 

Pat  seldom  saw  her  alone  now  excepting  when 
occasionally  on  Sunday  afternoons  he  would  take 
her  with  the  children  for  a  ride  up  to  the  park,  as 
had  been  his  habit  for  years.  While  the  little 
ones  played  under  the  oaks  or  braided  clover 
wreaths  near,  he  would  sit  at  her  feet  on  the 
gnarled  roots  of  the  old  trees  and  tell  her  about 
his  life  at  "the  Dutchman's,"  and  sometimes, 
though  not  often,  he  would  speak  of  how  he  had 
missed  her  out  of  his  daily  life. 

He  avoided  this  as  much  as  possible,  however. 
It  was  so  hard  to  be  a  little  tender  when  in  his 
Irish  heart  was  smouldering  a  fire  that  at  the 
lightest  breath  would  flare  into  a  flame. 

He  had  promised  himself  and  her  to  wait  until 
she  should  pass  her  eighteenth  year  before  allow 
ing  her  to  bind  herself  by  solemn  promise. 

She  knew  that  he  loved  her — that  he  was  work 
ing  early  and  late,  living  with  people  who  were  in 
touch  with  him  only  in  their  determination  to 
make  money — and  that  it  was  all  for  her. 

Sometimes,  growing  weary  of  his  silence,  she 
would  invite  a  declaration  by  some  naive  question 
put  in  monosyllables,  as  when  she  said,  one  Sun 
day,  as  they  rose  to  start  home : 

"  You  like  me  yet,  Woona  ?" 

"Like  ye  yet !  Arrah,  musha,  an'  whut  ?re  ye 
sayin',  darlint  ?  Like  ye  ?  Sure  I  love  ye,  from 
the  crown  av  yer  purrty  little  black  head  to  the 
sole  av  yer  two  feet,  an'  all  the  way  back,  wud  a 
lap  over  !  An'  why  d'ye  ask  me  that  ?" 


59 


But  instead  of  answering  him,  she  only  colored 
like  a  rose,  and  said : 

"I'm  glad." 

And  Pat,  lifting  the  children  into  the  car,  felt 
like  kicking  his  wooden  leg  to  the  winds  and  fly 
ing  ;  but  he  only  said,  as  he  sat  beside  her : 

"  Begad,  an'  I'm  glad  ye're  glad,  mavourneen. 
Sure  sorrow  '11  dim  my  day  whin  ye're  sorry." 
And  as  he  raised  his  eyes  he  saw,  sitting  opposite, 
a  young  man  who  smiled  and  tipped  his  hat  to 
Carlotta — and  under  his  arm  he  carried  an  accor 
dion. 

As  he  looked  upon  him,  Pat  felt  a  shiver  pass 
over  him,  for  he  thought  he  had  never  seen  a 
youth  so  beautiful  as  he. 

"  That's  Giuseppe  Rubino,"  said  Carlotta,  look 
ing  into  his  eyes  with  the  directness  of  a  child. 

"  Is  it,  indade  ?  Sure  I  tuck  'im  for  a  vision  of 
S'int  Joseph  or  wan  av  the  angels.  An'  isn't  he  a 
beauty  ?" 

"  He  sings  pritty,"  replied  the  girl,  as  she  might 
have  said,  "It  is  growing  cold,"  or,  "  The  river  is 
rising." 

Pat  regarded  her  with  covert  scrutiny  for  a 
moment.  Could  it  be  possible  that  she  did  not 
see  that  this  tall  brown  boy,  with  his  soft  red  lips 
and  white  teeth,  his  lofty  movement  and  languid 
grace,  was  a  creature  of  rare  and  poetic  beauty  ? 

Had  she  too  not  seen  the  red  deepen  beneath 
the  olive  of  his  cheek  when  his  eye  met  hers? 
Had  she  not  learned  in  all  the  summer  evenings 


what  Pat  had  caught  in  a  twinkling— that  the 
youth  loved  her  with  all  the  fresh  ardor  of  a  nat 
ure  fashioned  for  romance  ? 

It  seemed  not;  for  she  remarked,  in  the  same 
even  tone  : 

"  He  comes  ev'ry  evenin'  pass  the  time  away. 
He  plays  nice." 

If  she  had  been  saying  she  hated  the  boy,  it 
would  not  have  kept  Pat's  heart  from  thumping 
against  his  waiscoat  while  his  eyes  rested  on  the 
beautiful  youth  who  was  helping  the  girl  he  loved 
to  "pass  the  time  away"  during  his  absence. 

"  An'  whut  does  he  do  for  a  livin'  ?  Sure 
there's  little  money  in  the  machine  he  carries, 
wud  all  its  puffin'  an'  blowun'.  " 

"  He's  pore.  He  works  fo'  ol'  Socola.  He  hates 
him,  too.  He's  savin'  up.  Bimeby  he's  goin'  to 
start  for  'isself." 

"  An'  who  told  ye  all  that,  Lottie  ?" 

"Hetol'me." 

"  An'  where  did  ye  meet  um  ?" 

"  He  come  to  fetch  my  paw  a  note  from  ol'  So 
cola.  He  say  he  seen  me  first  in  his  sleep  one 
night.  He  talks  funny.  I  don'  pay  no  'tention." 

It  was  time  to  stop  the  car;  but  before  Pat 
could  do  so  the  young  man  had  pulled  the  strap 
and  was  going  out. 

"  Please  to  make  you  'quainted  wid  Mister  Ru- 
bino,  Mister  Rooney,"  said  Carlotta,  as  Giuseppe, 
smiling,  joined  them,  and  the  three,  Carlotta  in 
the  middle,  followed  the  children  home. 


AND  THE  THREE  FOLLOWED  THE  CHILDREN  HOME' 


If  Pat  appeared  at  a  disadvantage,  no  one  was 
half  so  conscious  of  it  as  himself  as  he  hobbled 
beside  the  youthful  pair  on  his  wooden  peg. 

Ever  since  he  had  loved  the  girl,  he  had  been 
keenly  sensitive  in  regard  to  his  lameness.  In 
deed,  he  had  even  once  gone  so  far  as  to  try  to 
repair  it  by  wearing  an  artificial  leg,  but,  as  Car- 
lotta  had  shrunk  away  from  it  as  something  un 
canny,  declaring  that  it  "made  her  think  about 
dead  people,"  he  had  discarded  it  after  a  single 
experiment. 

It  seemed  but  natural  that  Pat  should  sit  with 
"the  old  folks"  while  Carlotta  and  the  youth 
joined  the  young  group  at  the  other  door  to-night ; 
it  was  quite  natural  that  Giuseppe  should  presently 
be  playing  the  accordion  for  the  crowd — the  same 
thing  had  happened  before,  many  a  time;  and  yet 
to-night  Pat  felt  it  all  as  he  had  never  done  be 
fore. 

"A  fine-lookin'  chap  is  this  young  man  Ru- 
bino,"  he  said,  presently,  to  the  signora. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  And  who  is  'e  ?"  he  pursued. 

"  Carlo  sayce  ees  -  a  wan  good  steady  young 
man;  bud  me,  I  know  northeen  'boud  who  ees-a 
keep-a  comp'ny  weeth-a  C'lotta."  And  the  shoul 
ders  shrugged  again,  a  movement  so  distinctly 
reminiscent  of  the  previous  affair  that  Pat  thought 
it  discreet  to  change  the  subject. 

As  the  evening  wore  on,  he  grew  restless. 

"  Well,  I  b'lave  I'll  thry  a  promenade  for  me 


62 


complexion,"  said  he,  rising  finally.  "  Sure  me 
right  fut  is  itchin'  for  a  walk."  And,  with  this 
characteristic  allusion  to  the  missing  member,  he 
started  down  the  street.  He  had  not  gone  far, 
however,  when  he  came  upon  a  crowd  of  young 
men,  Italians  most  of  them,  sitting  upon  the  steps 
outside  the  closed  doors  of  a  shop  —  a  common 
Sunday-evening  congregation — and,  as  a  familiar 
voice  accosted  him,  he  had  soon  seated  himself 
with  them. 

Several  of  the  habitues  of  the  Di  Carlo  shop 
were  present,  and  were  bantering  one  another  in 
Italian  about  Carlotta.  Pat  was  not  supposed  to 
understand. 

All  went  smoothly  for  a  time,  until  young  Tra- 
monetti,  an  ugly,  heavily-set  fellow  who  had  been 
the  target  of  several  sallies  on  the  score  of  his 
well-known  unsuccessful  suitj  suddenly  turned  in 
anger. 

"  I  could  marry  her  to  -  morrow  if  I  had 
money !"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  sneer. 

"  Psh-h-h  !  You'd  have  to  get  a  new  face  on 
you  first !"  came  a  quick  retort. 

"  I  think  my  face  is  just  as  pretty  as  old  Pietro 
Socola's  ;  and  she  tried  hard  enough  to  get  him, 
all  the  same  !" 

"  You  better  say  he  tried  for  her,  yes,"  was  the 
reply. 

Pat,  although  talking  quietly  aside,  caught  and 
understood  every  word. 

"  Tried  nothing  !"  continued  Tramonetti.  - "  He 


63 


never  wanted  her.  Married  her  rich  cousin,  yes  ! 
But  Carlotta  tried  pretty  hard  to  get  him.  My 
self  saw  her  every  minute  pass  before  him  in  the 
shop  and  make  sheep's-eyes  !" 

Pat  could  stand  no  more. 

"An'  I  say  ye're  a  liur!"  he  exclaimed,  rising 
and  facing  the  speaker. 

The  effect  of  his  words  was  magical.  A  still 
ness  fell  upon  the  assembly.  After  an  interval,  an 
old  man,  Tramonetti's  uncle,  broke  the  silence. 

"  Wath-a  you  knowce  'bouth  ?"  he  asked,  turn 
ing  languidly  to  the  Irishman  with  that  apathetic 
manner  beneath  which  anything  may  lurk. 

"  Sure  an'  I  do  jist  happen  accidintally  to  know 
that  that  young  man  is  a  liur  !" 

The  object  of  his  accusation  quietly  lit  a  ciga 
rette. 

"  How  ees-a  you  knowce  ?  Socola  selve  ees-a 
tell  evera-body  neva  ees-a  lov'-a  tall.  Wath-a  you 
knowce  ?" 

And  now  another  spoke — a  cousin  of  Tramo- 
netti. 

"  Socola  ees-a  tell  all-a  mans  on  Picayune  Tier 
she  ees-a  try  for  'eem  all-a  same." 

Grunts  of  assent  in  several  directions  testified 
that  the  story  was  familiar. 

"An'  he's  another  liur,  an'  I'd  tell  ut  to  'is 
gums,  the  toothless  ould  macaroni-sucker  !  Sure 
an'  I've  had  me  two  eers  pricked  for  this  same  lie 
this  twelvemonth,  an',  bedad,  I've  laid  low  an'  kep' 
shtill  for  ut!  An'  did  'e  say  she  thried  to  catch 


64 


'im — the  contimptible  little  river  shrimp — he  that 
had  'is  two  eyes  set  out  like  yung  telescopes  af- 
ther  'er!" 

"  Fo'  God  sague,  don'-a  mague-a  no  troub' ! 
Blief  Socola  ees-a  just  talk  fo'  play  !"  suggested 
another. 

"  Thin  Pm  playin'  when  I  tell  ye  that  he  thried 
wud  all  the  iloquent  perrsuasion  av  his  money 
bags  to  buy  'er! — offered  the  ould  man  a  thousand 
dollars  down  for  'er,  an'  pitched  'imself  in  at  the 
end  o'  the  thrade,  like  a  punkin-colored  chrorno 
for  lagniappe  ;  but  the  girrl — sure  I  do  raise  me 
hat  whin  I  do  sphake  'er  name  " — every  hat  fol 
lowed  as  he  lifted  his  own — "  but  the  girrl  wudn't 
look  ut  um !  An'  the  night  he  married  'er  pug- 
nosed  cousin,  sure  he  kem  in  the  kerridge  wud  all 
'is  crowd  for  'erself,  an'  she  shkipped  out  the  win 
dow  an'  hid.  So  whin  he  cudn't  get  corrn  'e  took 
shucks,  as  mony  o'  ye  '11  do  -afther  'im  !  Now,  putt 
that  in  yer  pipe  an'  shmoke  ut !" 

He  turned  now  again  to  Tramonetti. 

"An'  this  yung  gas-chandelier  heer,  who  sez  'e 
seen  'er  wink  at  'im,  is  a  dirrty  black — " 

"  Ah-h-h-h!  Ged  oud!  'M  just  a  mague  a  lill-a 
fun!"  drawled  the  boy. 

"  An'  ye  take  ut  back,  wul  ye  ?" 

The  men  were  all  laughing  now  at  the  new  ver 
sion  of  the  Socola  marriage. 

"  So  the  ol'  man  got  fooled,  eh  ?"  said  one. 

"  But  I  say,  d'ye  take  ut  back  ?"  persisted  Pat. 

"  Ain't  I  sayce  was-a  play'n'  ?     Fo'  God  sague, 


65 


how    much-a    mo1   you   wan'  ?"     And    he    rose 
to  go. 

The  storm  was  past,  and  by  twos  and  threes 
the  men  dispersed,  laughing  and  talking  as  they 
went. 

As  Pat  moved  away,  an  old  man  who  had  sat 
apart  in  the  shadow  stood  up,  and  the  light  from 
the  gas  at  the  corner  fell  upon  a  visage  sinister, 
one-eyed,  and  lowering. 

Pat  instantly  recognized  it  as  the  face  of  a  man 
who  had  been  present  at  the  Di  Carlos'  on  the 
night  of  the  Socola  wedding.  Indeed,  it  was  he 
who  had  been  sent  to  Pat  as  interpreter,  on  this 
occasion,  of  the  Mafia  anathema.  Pat  thought  of 
this,  but  he  did  not  care. 

As  he  turned  his  back,  another  man  arose  out 
of  the  shadow  at  the  other  end  of  the  shed.  He 
too  had  been  a  guest  at  the  wedding. 

The  two  Sicilians,  who  were  presently  left  alone, 
regarded  each  other  in  silence  for  a  moment,  when 
the  last  to  rise  made  the  sign  of  the  Mafia.  The 
answering  motion  was  given,  and  the  two,  still 
silent,  sat  down  together  again  in  the  shadow. 

They  were  bound  by  oath  to  report  this  disclos 
ure  to  Socola,  and  they  knew  what  the  inevitable 
result  would  be:  the  Irishman's  words  would 
prove  his  death-sentence. 

Under  the  vow  of  perfect  obedience,  either  or 
both  of  them  might  become  the  executors  of  an 
old  man's  personal  vengeance. 

It  was  an  ugly  business,  and  neither  of  the  men 


66 


welcomed  it.  Both  knew  Pat's  cordial  relations 
with  many  of  their  countrymen,  among  whom,  in 
deed,  he  had  not  a  single  enemy.  Even  the  old 
man  Socola  liked  him.  But  they  understood  too 
well  the  imperious  pride  of  the  vindictive  old  Si 
cilian  to  hope  that  a  personal  friendship,  or  even 
a  tie  of  blood,  would  protect  any  man  who  dared 
betray  his  dignity.  Certainly  the  casual  feeling 
of  negative  good-will  which  he  felt  towards  Pat 
would  melt  like  snow  beneath  the  hot  breath  of 
his  wrath  when  he  should  learn  that  the  Irishman 
had  given  his  secret  to  the  common  herd  of  his 
countrymen.  The  indomitable  pride  which  had 
led  him  to  marry  an  ugly,  unattractive  woman  the 
first  time  he  met  her,  rather  than  brook  the  odium 
of  a  disclosure  of  his  rejection,  would  not  spare 
him  who,  although  forewarned,  had  dared  di 
vulge  it. 

It  was  some  moments  before  either  of  the  men 
spoke,  and  then  one  said,  in  Italian  : 

«  Well—" 

"  Well — "  was  the  answer.    And,  after  a  pause: 

"  I  wish  I  had  gone  home  to-night." 

"  And  me  too.  I  wish  I  had  stayed  at  the  cof 
fee-house." 

"  He's  a  good  friend  to  all  the  Carlo  Di  Carlos, 
that  old  Irishman." 

"  Yes,  I  know.  Last  year,  when  all  the  babies 
took  the  small-pox  and  the  shop  was  shut  up, 
he  signed  for  the  rent ;  and  he  paid  every  cent 
since — three  months'  rent." 


67 


"  Yes,  and  old  Di  Carlo  says  Carlotta's  school 
ing  never  cost  him  a  dollar.  This  cripple  pai,d 
it  all." 

"  And  when  the  old  man  was  stung  with  a  taran 
tula  hidden  in  a  bunch  of  bananas,  while  every 
body  cried  and  ran  every  way,  they  say  the  shoe 
maker  threw  his  hat  on  the  spider  and  sat  on  it 
quick,  while  he  took  little  Di  Carlo  across  his 
knee  like  a  baby  and  sucked  the  poison  from  the 
back  of  his  neck.  Di  Carlo  was  carrying  the 
bananas  on  his  shoulder  when  the  little  devil 
stung  him." 

"  Yes,  I  heard  that.  And  all  the  people  laughed 
while  they  cried,  because  when  he  was  sucking 
the  poison  he  said,  'Let  me  kiss  you  for  your 
mother.'  " 

They  were  silent  again  for  a  time. 

"  If  Tramonetti  had  only  kept  his  big  mouth 
shut—" 

"  Yes,  I  wish  he  had  choked  before  he  spoke 
to-night.  He  made  all  the  trouble." 

Another  silence. 

«  Well—" 

«  Well—" 

"  It's  a  bad  world,  this.  One  minute  we  play 
an  organ  at  the  corner  for  any  beggar  to  dance, 
the  next  minute  maybe  we  get  orders  to  file  our 
stilettos  and  put  on  a  black  mask." 

"  Me,  I  am  tired.     I  wish  I  was  out  of  it." 

"  And  me  too.  Tell  the  truth,  I've  never  been 
the  same  since  that  job  you  and  I  did  at  the  old 


Basin.  I  see,  a  thousand  times  a  day,  that  young 
man's  face  the  way  it  looked  in  the  moonlight. 
Sometimes  I  am  playing  my  organ  laughing,  and 
he  comes  and  stands  before  me  with  his  neck  so. 
And,  I  swear  before  God,  I  believe  the  monkey 
sees  him.  Many  times  when  he  is  dancing  he 
looks  up  and  runs  and  crawls  behind  me,  crying, 
and  I  look  around,  and  I  see  the  young  man  with 
his  neck  cut.  I  kiss  the  cross,  but  it's  true. 
Four  times  last  week  Jocko  did  that,  and  I  trem 
bled  so  I  missed  the  time  in  my  music.  You 
don't  believe  it's  true  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  believe  you.  I've  seen  them  again, 
too.  But  now  they  are  too  many.  They  don't 
frighten  me.  I  laugh  in  their  faces,  and  they 
dance  and  run  one  through  another,  like  clouds 
of  smoke.  I  am  an  old  man,  and  I  have  struck 
many  a  blow,  but  not  one  for  hate,  thank  God — 
only  obedience." 

"Nor  me  neither.  Only  twice  I  have  been  on 
duty.  Once  my  partner  did  the  work,  and  the 
other  time — you  know.  And  now,  my  God  !  if 
I  have  to  listen  all  my  life  to  that  Irishman's 
wooden  leg,  *  tap,  tap,  tap,1  in  my  ears,  I'll  go 
crazy  ;  I'll  drown  myself." 

The  other  man  laughed. 

"  Oh,  don't  hurt  yourself.  Maybe  old  Socola  '11 
put  somebody  else  on  this  job.  And  the  next 
time  that  young  fellow  we  finished  at  the  Basin 
comes  fooling  around  you,  showing  you  the  cut 
in  his  neck,  you  send  him  to  me.  I  believe  I  gave 


him  his  send-off,  anyway.  Twas  good  enough 
for  him.  His  tongue  was  too  long." 

"  No,  no  !  They  know  whom  to  follow— and 
I  know.  I  am  left-handed,  and  the  hole  in  his 
neck  was  here;  and  sometimes  my  left  hand 
burns  like  hell.  You  can  laugh,"  he  continued, 
rising,  "  but  it  is  no  fun  to  me.  But  I  am  not  a 
teething  baby.  Easy  or  hard,  I  am  good  for  my 
duty." 

"  Well,"  said  the  other,  "  dimani"  (to-morrow). 

" Dimani"  was  the  answer. 

And  so  they  parted. 

As  the  younger  man  walked  away,  the  older 
sighed. 

"  Poor  boy  !"  (he  spoke  still  in  Italian),  "  I  was 
like  him  too,  once.  The  first  drop  of  blood  on 
a  man's  hand  burns  like  a  coal  of  fire,  and  a  ghost 
stands  beside  it  always,  blowing  upon  it  to  keep 
it  burning.  The  only  relief  is  more  blood.  When 
once  he  is  bathed  in  blood  he  burns  the  same  all 
over,  and  he  knows  himself  for  a  devil,  and  the 
air  of  hell  feels  good  to  him.  All  around  him 
are  ghosts  blowing  upon  him,  and  he  likes  their 
breath  and  laughs  because  he  is  solid  fire  and 
they  are  like  a  roaring  wind  around  him.  If  they 
would  go  and  leave  him  to  cool  he  would  go  all 
to  gray  ashes  and  fall  to  pieces.  He  would  go 
crazy  and  kill  himself.  Anyhow,  I  am  sorry  for 
this  business." 

He  rose,  and,  as  he  started  home,  curiosity  led 
him  somewhat  out  of  his  way  to  pass  the  Di 


70 


Carlo  shop.  He  walked  on  the  other  side  of  the 
street.  He  looked  over. 

Pat  stood  among  the  children  on  the  banquette, 
throwing  a  little  one  into  the  air  and  catching 
her,  while  the  others  stood  waiting  and  begging: 

" Take  me,  Mr.  Pat!" 

"  Teresa  had  four  turns." 

"  Little  Pat  always  gets  the  most." 

It  was  a  pretty  picture. 

"  Well,  I'm  sorry,"  the  man  repeated  to  himself 
as  he  passed  on.  "  In  the  name  of  God,  why  can't 
men  keep  their  tongues?  But,  anyhow,  I  am 
sorry." 

The  picture  of  the  amiable  man  in  the  bosom 
of  the  family  of  his  countryman  playing  with  his 
children,  unconscious  of  impending  evil,  remained 
with  the  Sicilian  as  he  walked  home.  Indeed, 
Pat's  offence  seemed  to  him  more  than  half  a 
virtue  ;  for  was  it  not  provoked  by  his  stanch 
championship  of  the  young  Italian  girl,  Carlotta? 

If  only  Socola  would  be  made  to  see  it  in  this 
light ! 

Before  reporting  the  case,  even,  this  man  of 
the  sinister  face,  who  had  never  before  troubled 
himself  with  a  personal  concern  for  his  victims, 
summoned  his  best  English  and  wrote  a  word  of 
warning  to  the  Irishman. 

It  ran  about  like  this : 

"  MR.  ROONEY  AT  CARLO  Di  CARLO, — This  warn 
you  to  run  for  your  life.  Leaf  New  Orleans  rite 


71 


way.     It  is  not  in  power  off  man  to  safe  you  neith 
er  God  if  you  remane  before  the  eye  of  Mafia. 

"  One  man's  spite  it  is  whitch  marc  you  to  die. 
If  you  remaine  a  nife  go  throught  your  heart.  It 
is  true.  I  swear  before  God." 

When  he  passed  through  the  shop  early  Mon 
day  morning  on  his  way  home,  Pat  found  this 
note  with  another  slipped  in  beneath  the  edge  of 
the  front  door. 

The  other  was  shorter,  but,  as  if  to  add  weight 
and  solemnity  to  its  almost  affectionate  warning, 
across  the  top  of  the  sheet  were  written  the  words 
"Jesus,  Mary,  Joseph." 

Both  notes  were  unsigned.  Pat  read  them  hast 
ily,  and,  chuckling,  as  he  slipped  them  into  his 
pocket,  started  out. 

He  had  proceeded  but  a  few  steps,  however, 
when  he  suddenly  hesitated,  took  off  his  hat, 
scratched  his  head  for  a  moment,  and,  turning, 
went  back  into  the  house. 

Five  minutes'  reflection  had  sufficed  to  decide 
him  as  to  what  he  should  do. 


It  was  two  hours  later  when  Pat  started  out 
again,  and  this  time  he  went  directly  down  to  the 
fruit-shop  of  Pietro  Socola,  where  a  most  unex 
pected  and  festive  scene  greeted  him. 


72 


The  little  old  man,  surrounded  by  a  dozen  or 
more  of  his  countrymen  (and  others  were  coming 
and  going),  was  opening  bottles  of  wine  and  drink 
ing  freely. 

As  Pat  entered,  Socola  bowed  delightedly,  and, 
filling  a  glass,  presented  it  to  him. 

Everybody  was  laughing  and  drinking,  and  the 
host,  although  it  was  yet  scarce  ten  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  showed  the  effect  of  many  glasses  in  his 
flushed  face  and  hilarious  spirits. 

Not  understanding  in  the  least,  but  unable  to 
resist  so  social  a  spirit,  Pat,  at  the  signal,  raised 
the  glass  to  his  lips.  It  was  only  when  some  one 
pronounced  the  name  "  Pietro  Socola  Junio  "  that 
the  situation  flashed  upon  his  comprehension. 

Unto  the  house  of  Socola  a  son  had  been  born. 

The  last  time  Pat  had  met  the  old  man,  a  year 
before,  the  night  of  his  wedding,  he  had  grasped 
his  hand  in  congratulation,  and  he  did  so  again  now. 

"Accept  me  congratulations,  Misther  Socola," 
he  exclaimed;  and,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  rais 
ing  his  glass  again,  "Ileer's  luck  to  the  junior 
partner  in  the  future  firrm  av  Socola  an'  Son. 
May  he  niver  cross  'is  father  an'  niver  boss  'is 
mother,  an'  be  a  shinin'  example  to  all  'is  yunger 
brothers  an'  sisters !" 

Hearty  laughter  greeted  this  toast,  and  the  old 
man  insisted  on  refilling  the  glasses  all  round, 
saying,  in  Italian,  to  the  men  as  he  did  so,  "  He 
has  come  a  great  distance  to  wish  me  joy.  Keep 
his  glass  full." 


73 


Socola  was  not  a  heavy  drinker,  and  his  voice 
was  already  growing  unsteady. 

While  they  stood  here,  the  one-eyed  man  whom 
Pat  had  recognized  in  the  shadow  the  night  be 
fore  joined  the  group.  He  winced  visibly,  Pat 
thought,  on  perceiving  him  in  this  crowd,  and 
while  he  and  Socola  touched  glasses,  Pat  with 
drew,  and,  joining  some  of  the  men  whom  he 
knew,  walked  out  upon  the  levee. 

When  he  returned,  an  hour  later,  he  glanced 
into  Socola's  shop.  The  hitherto  childless  old 
man,  translated  by  his  tardy  honors  into  a  state 
of  gleeful  irresponsibility,  had  by  this  time  got 
ten  right  royally  drunk,  and  now  some  friends 
were  trying  to  induce  him  to  go  home. 

Pat  laughed  to  himself  as  he  saw  him  stagger 
up  to  the  carriage  door.  "Arrah,  musha!"  he 
exclaimed,  "sure  an'  it's  a  holy  thing  to  be  a 
father !  Faith  an'  he  waddles  like  a  puddle- 
dthrake  on  a  hatchin'  day !  I  hope  the  young 
duck  '11  be  big  enough  to  crowd  murdher  out  av 
the  ould  dthrake's  heart,  if  ut's  in  ut." 

The  truth  was,  Pat  had  gone  down  to  Socola  to 
propose  that  they  confess  themselves  mutually 
aggrieved,  and  proceed  to  settle  the  matter  at 
once  by  a  square  hand-to-hand  fist-fight. 

He  had  withheld  the  facts  about  the  wedding 
until  Socola  had  first  lied  about  it.  He  was  will 
ing  to  fight  for  the  truth.  If  Socola  wanted  to 
fight  for  the  lie,  let  him  come  and  "  have  it  out " 
then  and  there  ;  or  if  the  old  man  preferred  to 


74 

I 

have  a  subordinate  member  of  the  Mafia  to  rep 
resent  him  in  the  affair,  let  him  send  any  one  of 
them  to  him. 

It  was  only  as  a  vague  intangibility  that  Pat 
objected  to  deal  with  the  Mafia. 

He  was  sure  that  as  soon  as  Socola  should  see 
that  all  he  demanded  was  a  "  fair  showing  "  they 
could  come  to  a  satisfactory  understanding:  so 
little  did  he  comprehend  the  nature  of  the  man 
with  whom  he  had  to  deal,  or  the  character  of  the 
organization  which  threatened  him. 

As  he  surmised,  Socola  had  not  yet  even  heard 
of  his  offence.  The  two  men  who  went  to  make 
their  reports  were,  like  himself,  treated  to  wine, 
and  saw  their  host  carried  home  hors  de  combat. 

As  Pat  hesitated  at  Socola's  door,  the  one-eyed 
man  was  coming  out,  and  they  met,  face  to  face. 

Pat  touched  his  hat.  The  Sicilian  responded  by 
a  like  salutation,  and  would  have  passed  on,  but 
Pat  detained  him: 

"  Shtop  a  bit,  Misther ;  sure,  I  don't  know 

yer  name,  but  whilst  no  one's  by  I'd  like  to  thank 
ye  for  the  bit  of  a  love-letther  ye  sint  me  last 
night." 

The  man  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Loaf-a-let- 
ther  ?"  he  asked,  with  inimitable  blandness.  "  Me, 
I  no  write-a  northeen." 

"Mebbe  ye  don't  call  it  a  love-letther  itself. 
Now  I  do  think  again,  I  belave  it's  not  a  heart 
wud  a  dart  run  through  ut  for  a  bookay  at  the 
top  o'  the  sheet,  but  a  couple  o'  shin-bones  for- 


75 


ninst  a  graveyard  photograph  wud  a  company 
shmile  on  'im.  But  sure  what's  left  out  av  the 
crest  is  indicated  in  the  text.  Ye've  hinted  purty 
clear  at  the  piercin'  o'  me  palpitator  at  the  end  o' 
the  po'm." 

Fumbling  in  his  pocket,  he  now  brought  out  the 
two  letters. 

"Pity  ye  cudn't  get  ould  Socola  to  set  for  a 
Cupid  aimin'  wud  his  bow  an'  arrer  at  me  hearrt. 
Ye  see,  Irish  litherature  is  different  ag'in  from 
Jtalian.  Sure  an'  if  a  bunch  o'  Paddies  wint  into 
the  tinder  correspondence  like  this,  like  as  not 
they'd  have  me  in  a  picture,  peg  an'  all,  shlapin' 
in  the  heart  av  a  rose,  like  they  do  be  in  Hoyt's 
Gerrman  Cologne  advertizemints,  an'  mebbe  a 
bumble-bee  wud  ould  Socola's  face  on  'im  threat- 
enin'  the  unconscious  shlaper  wud  wan  av  his  reg 
ular  breech-loaders  !  Ye  see,  it  'd  be  a  bit  cheer 
ful,  but  aqually  to  the  point.  Sure  there's  no  life 
nor  joy  in  a  bare  shin-bone,  lest  ye'd  have  it 
raised  like  a  fearless  sprig  o'  shillelah." 

By  this  time  he  had  opened  both  letters. 

"Now,"  he  continued,  "  droth  an'  I  don't  know 
which  o'  these  two  shtate  dokimints  ye  sint  me, 
or  whether  ye're  wan  o'  thim  scriptural  chaps  that 
kapes  yer  right  hand  in  ignorance  o'  the  thricks 
o'  the  left,  an'  yer  two  hands  unbeknowinst  to 
wan  anither  have  sint  me  a  frindly  warrnin'; 
but  r'a'ly  and  truly  I'm  very  much  obliged 
to  ye." 

Pat  had  given  him  no  chance  to  reply,  but  now 


he  saw  that  the  Italian's  attitude  was  one  of  pro 
test. 

"Know  northeeh  'bouth,"  he  was  saying, 
gently. 

"  Whut!  D'ye  mane  to  say  ye  niver  sint  me 
nayther  wan  o'  dthese  letthers  ?" 

"Know  northeen  'bouth,"  he  repeated,  with  an 
apathy  of  manner  that  was  almost  convincing. 

Pat  scratched  his  head. 

"Mary  Ann's  mother-in-law!"  he  exclaimed, 
and,  after  a  pause : 

"  Thin  who  in  the  name  o'  Donnybrook  Fair 
done  ut  ?  Ye're  the  only  mon  who  cud  write  ut. 
Sure  none  o'  thim  chaps  last  night  knowed  north- 
in'  about  the  throuble  at  Socola's  marriage  till  I 
towld  ut,  an'  faith  ye're  the  only  mon  there  that 
knowed  I  shpoke  the  truth." 

The  old  man  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Me,  I  no  know  'f  ees-a  thrue." 

This  was  too  much. 

"  Don't  know  if  ut's  thrue  !  The  divil  ye  don't! 
An'  didn't  ye  come  the  night  o'  the  marriage  an' 
explain  to  me,  worrd  for  worrd,  the  way  Socola 
put  the  Mafia  currse  on  him  that  'd  tell  ?" 

The  Sicilian  smiled.  "Me,  I  know  northeen 
'bouth-a  Signor  Socola — northeen  'bouth-a  Mafia 
— northeen  'bouth-a  northeen!" 

"An'  ye  weren't  at  the  Di  Carlos'  this  night 
twelvemonth  past  ?" 

"  Scuza  me,  my  frien',  'f  you  please.  'M  in-a 
gread-a  hoary.  Me,  'm-a  allawa  fo'  business." 


77 


He  hesitated  here,  and,  looking  round  cautious 
ly,  lowered  his  voice  as  he  took  Pat's  hand. 

"  Tell-a  you  thrue,"  he  said,  with  a  nearer  ap 
proach  to  animation  than  he  had  yet  shown— 
"  tell-a  you  thrue,  'f  I  was-a  ged  a  ledther  ligue 
thad,  me,  I  would-a  theng  God  I  haf  time  run  quig 
hide-a  myselve.  Well— goo'-by !  Hofe-a  you  good 
lug."  And  he  turned  away. 

A  sudden  light  came  into  the  Irishman's  face. 

"  Howld  on  a  bit!"  he  exclaimed.    "  Howld — on 

a bit !     I've  a  purrty  thick  shkull  on  me,  but 

I  do  begin  to  see  the  dthrift  'f  yer  iloquence. 
Plaze  to  presint  me  complimints  to  the  gintleman 
that  sint  me  the  letthers,  if  ye  do  chance  to  run 
aground  av  'im  on  the  boulevards,  an'  tell  'im  III 
not  run,  nor  hide  nayther  /" 

Gathering  emphasis  here  by  a  moment's  si 
lence,  he  leaned  forward  and  looked  the  Sicilian 
squarely  in  the  eye. 

"  There's  a  bit  av  a  song  we  do  sing  in  the  ould 
counthry.  Perchance  ye've  niver  heerd  ut,  but 
I'm  that  interested  in  the  cultivation  av  yer  mind 
I'll  tell  ut  out  to  ye  partly: 

"'S'int  Patthrick  was  a  gintleman, 

And  kem  av  dacent  people ; 
He  built  a  church  in  Dublin  town 

An'  on  ut  put  a  shteeple. 
His  father  was  a  Gallagher, 

His  mother  was  a  Brady, 
His  aunt  was  an  O'Shaughnessy, 

His  uncle  was  O'Grady. 


78 


So  success  attind  S'int  Patthrick's  fist, 

For  he  was  a  saint  so  clever — 
Oh,  he  gave  t/te  shnakes  and  toads  a  twist 

That  bothered  thim  forever.' 

"  Ye  see,  that's  a  beautiful  po'm,  Misther — Mis- 
ther  Know-northin',  wud  solud  Irish  sintimints, 
an'  the  whole  moral  law  jellied  down  into  shtand- 
in'-shape  in  the  chorus." 

He  moved  backwards  a  step  here,  and  touched 
his  own  breast  as  he  continued: 

"The  'umble  perrson  ye  do  see  before  ye  is  a 
fractional  descindant  along  'th  bein'  a  namesake 
o'  the  gintleman,  S'int  Patthrick  himself,  an',  up 
to  the  prisent  moment,  sure  success  has  always  at- 
tinded  his  fist !  We're  av  a  pedigree  that  has  no 
use  for  toads  norr  shnakes,  norr  onything  toadyin' 
norr  shnakin'  —  beyant  givin'  thim  a  twist 
that'll  bother  thim  forever.  Sure  I  kem  down 
this  morrnin'  with  the  'onerable  intintion  o' 
latherin/  the  bit  av  a  varmint,  Socola,  wud 
me  fist,  but  the  wave  o'  prosperity — or  pos 
terity,  whichever  ye  like — lifted  him  beyant 
me  entirely.  But  Fll  be  down  again,  plaze 
God,  in  a  couple  o'  days,  wud  S'int  Patthrick's 
weapon  !" 

He  held  up  his  clenched  fist.  "  And  now,"  he 
added,  extending  his  hand,  "I  do  wish  ye  good- 
day!" 

The  Sicilian  stood  and  looked  after  him  a  mo 
ment  in  bewilderment,  and  then  he  said  some 
thing,  presumably  in  Anglo  -  Italian ;  at  least,  it 


79 


sounded  like  "  Damfoo', "  a  word  not  found  in 
English  print. 

By  a  strange  coincidence,  Pat  said  the  same 
word  as  he  turned  the  corner.  He  had  picked  up 
a  good  deal  of  the  colloquial  patois  of  these  peo 
ple. 

When  Socola  returned  to  his  shop  on  the  next 
day,  a  little  withered  grotesque  impersonation  of 
bilious  pomposity,  his  inner  consciousness  never 
theless  corresponded  to  his  own  best  ideal  of  a 
noble,  dignified,  and  tender  father. 

Indeed,  he  felt  father  to  all  the  world,  except 
ing,  of  course,  the  dear  woman  to  whom  he  was 
husband  ;  and  this  exception  was  as  distinct  and 
as  tender  and  sensitive  as  only  this  particularly 
potent  occasion  could  make  it. 

He  had  hitherto  known  nothing  so  exquisitely 
refined  as  the  almost  reverential  tenderness  with 
which  his  intensely  masculine  heart  went  out  to 
the  sallow  little  mother  and  the  tiny  yellow  man- 
child  who  lay  upon  her  breast  to-day.  The  com 
bination  was  something  to  live  for,  to  fight  for,  to 
die  for — almost. 

And  Pat's  offence  was  against  this  embodiment 
of  sacredness — this  woman — this  infant. 

The  accidental  wife — the  incidental  babe  !  How 
the  thought  would  cheapen  the  sacred  possessions 
in  the  vulgar  mind  !  To  Socola  himself,  when  it 
all  dimly  recurred  to  him,  it  seemed  almost  a  dream 
which  he  no  longer  more  than  half  believed.  If 
he  were  choosing  again,  he  could  choose  no  other 


80 


woman  of  all  the  world  ;  and  surely  he  would  have 
no  other  babe  than  this ! 

When  the  two  men,  the  one  with  the  blind  eye 
and  the  other,  came  together  in  the  shop  on  this 
second  day  and  gave  to  Socola,  separately,  as  op 
portunity  offered,  the  sign  of  the  Mafia,  it  was  a 
signal  to  withdraw  hastily  with  them  into  his  pri 
vate  office. 

A  subordinate  gives  the  summons  to  his  chief 
only  when  a  communication  of  importance  is  pend 
ing. 

When  he  returned  to  the  shop,  an  hour  later,  the 
old  man  was  still  blue  about  the  lips,  and  his  hands 
trembled  as  he  swore  promiscuous  oaths  indis 
criminately  at  the  employes  of  the  shop  for  im 
aginary  offences. 

The  two  men  had  gone  silently  together  out  of 
the  side  door  with  their  heads  down. 

Although  Pat  was  restless  in  view  of  an  im 
pending  row  and  eager  to  have  it  over,  gaug 
ing  the  probable  duration  of  an  Italian's  spree 
by  the  Hibernian  standard,  he  did  not  think  it 
worth  while  to  return  to  the  city  for  several 
days. 

The  gentleman  from  Palermo  had  in  the  mean 
time  had  much  time  for  sober  reflection.  He  had, 
of  course,  heard  of  Pat's  projected  visit,  and  was 
ready  for  him — with  an  extended  hand. 

Indeed,  no  crafty  diplomat  ever  confounded  an 
adversary  with  a  more  gracious  and  smiling  suav 
ity  than  that  with  which  he  greeted  and  disarmed 


his  ingenuous  guest  when,  on  the  Thursday  fol 
lowing,  Pat  re-entered  his  shop. 

Socola's  English  vocabulary,  at  best  a  matter  of 
a  few  hundred  words,  seemed  to-day  to  have 
shrunken  until  it  was  less  only  than  his  compre 
hension. 

He  failed  utterly  to  understand  that  there  could 
be  anything  disagreeable  in  his  visitor's  mission. 

The  interview,  a  ludicrous  pantomimic  affair 
throughout,  ended  by  a  mutual  hand-shaking  con 
fession  of  friendly  feeling,  and  Pat  went  away  en 
tirely  satisfied  that  either  a  mistake  had  been 
made,  the  Sicilian  had  forgotten  his  oath,  or  the 
coming  of  the  babe  had  indeed  crowded  murder 
out  of  the  father's  heart. 

He  had  personally  no  longer  a  quarrel  with  the 
old  man.  He  had  refuted  the  lie,  and  was  simply 
willing  to  stand  by  the  refutation. 

If  he  had  glanced  backwards  as  he  left  the  shop 
and  seen  the  menacing  scowl  that  followed  his  re 
ceding  figure,  he  would  perhaps  have  understood. 

From  Socola's  presence  he  went  up  "home,"  to 
the  Di  Carlos'.  Here,  to  his  dismay,  two  more 
notes  of  solemn  warning  awaited  him. 

Both  were  unsealed.  Indeed,  they  were  written 
on  unfolded  scraps  of  paper,  and  were  found 
slipped  in  beneath  the  door,  just  as  the  first  had 
been. 

When  the  signora  had  called  Pat  into  an  inner 
room,  she  closed  the  door  arid  turned  gray  with 
pallor  as  she  handed  them  to  him. 


82 


Her  fear  of  the  law,  of  death,  of  purgatory,  of 
hell,  was  vague  and  as  nothing  to  her  terror  of 
the  vengeance  of  the  Mafia.  None  of  her  family 
were  members  of  the  dread  organization,  but  she 
remembered  only  too  vividly  how  the  husband  of 
her  first-cousin  had  years  ago  received  just  such 
a  warning  as  this,  and  one  day  he  had  gone  as 
usual  to  his  work  and  had  never  come  home 
again. 

Ever  since  she  had  had  the  letters  in  her  pos 
session  she  had  felt  as  if  the  angel  of  death  were 
hovering  over  the  house. 

As  she  stood  at  Pat's  side  and  saw  him  read  the 
words  of  warning  she  began  to  cry. 

"Fo'  God  sague,  Meester  Pad,  wad  you  ees-a 
been  do  ?"  she  moaned. 

Pat  laughed. 

"Well,  ma'am,"  said  he,  "at  the  present  mo 
ment  I'm  jist  afther  a  second  visit  to  yer  yung 
frind,  Socola.  We're  that  thick  ye'd  think  we 
were  twins — or  thriplets  mebbe,  an'  I  was  two  an' 
he  only  wan  —  the  way  he  does  bow  an'  schrape 
right  an'  left  to  me." 

"  Socola !" 

If  Pat  had  said  he  had  just  returned  from  a 
visit  to  his  Satanic  majesty,  she  would  not  have 
been  much  more  startled.  "  Socola  !  You  ees-a 
been  see  Socola !  Fo'  God  sague,  how  you  ees-a 
fin'  Jim?" 

"  Find  'im  !  Faith  an'  he's  as  well  as  cud  be  ex 
pected  afther  havin'  a  fine  b'y  a-Sunda'  night.  Ye 


83 

see,  it  does  be  very  dangerous  whin  a  firrst  b'y  is 
borrn  to  an  ould  man.  It  does  fly  to  his  head  an' 
set  'im  ravin'  crazy.  I  b'lave  the  docthers  do  call 
it  puerile  f aver.  Did  ye  niver  heer  av  ut  ?" 

The  woman  was  too  much  concerned  even  to 
realize  that  he  was  jesting. 

"  Wad  'e  sayce  to  you  ?"  she  asked,  eagerly. 

"Sure  an'  he  sez  he  wants  to  name  the  yung- 
sther  af ther  me  ;  but  I'm  that  proud  I  won't  allow 
ut.  Ye  see,  the  shtyle  av  beauty  in  the  Rooney 
family  has  been  preserrved  through  thick  an'  thin 
wud  great  pains,  an'  I'd  niver  consint  to  take  a 
risk  on  Socola's  f 'atures,  wud  no  promise  av  relafe 
from  her  loyal  accidency  the  madam.  Ye  see,  a 
proud  man  must  protect  his  name  as  well  as  his 
fame." 

This  bantering,  really  only  a  ruse  to  gain  time 
to  reflect  a  little  on  the  situation,  was  becoming 
very  trying  to  the  signora.  Pat  became  suddenly 
conscious  that  there  were  genuine  tears  in  her 
eyes. 

"  Niver  mind,  now,  niver  mind,"  he  said,  with 
real  feeling.  "  Don't  fret  yersilf  because  a  couple 
o'  cranks  do  sind  me  a  valentine.  Faith,  there's 
northin'  in  ut,  but  mebbe  a  thrick  o'  the  shoe 
thrade  to  dthrive  me  out  o'  the  competition." 

He  then  briefly  reviewed  his  two  visits  to  the 
old  Sicilian,  omitting  the  occasion  of  his  going, 
and  laying  special  stress  on  all  the  pleasant  feat 
ures  of  their  meetings. 

But  she  was  not  to  be  so  easily  appeased.     She 


84 


lowered  her  voice  almost  to  a  whisper  when  she 
spoke  again  : 

"  Tell-a  you  thrue,  Meester  Pad,  me  an'  Carlo 
ees-a  been  hear  sornetheen." 

"Heerd  something,  did  ye?    An'  what  was  ut?" 

"  Plenny  young  mans  ees-a  tell  me  an'  Carlo 
you  ees-a  say  sometheen  'boud-a  C'lotta  an'  Signer 
Socola.  All-a  peoples  ees-a  talkin'  'boud." 

"  They  are,  are  they  ?  An'  whut  if  I  did  ?  An' 
whut  did  ye  say  ?" 

"Me  ?  Of-a  coze  I  sayce  ees-a  no  true  :  Socola 
ees-a  neva  was-a  lova-a  C'lotta." 

"  Ye  did,  did  ye  ?    An'  whut  did  'er  father  say?" 

"Carlo  sayce  you  ees-a  just  a  mague-a  lill  fun  ; 
'2  no  true" 

Pat  scratched  his  head.  "  An'  betune  the  two 
av  yez  ye've  made  me  out  a  bloomin'  liur,  now — 
haven't  yez?" 

"  'F  I  mague  you  oud  a  lie,  I  mague  you  just-a 
pardner  fo'  myselve.  Fo'  God  sague,  lis'n  ad  me, 
Meester  Pad.  'Z  no  time  fo'  talk  'boud  lie.  'Z-a 
time  fo'  business.  You  muz-a  go  just-a  so  quig  as 
you  can-a  go  an'  tell  all-a  doze  young  mans  you 
was-a  just-a  play'n'." 

Even  the  strong  friendship  evinced  by  her  in 
tense  anxiety  failed  to  palliate  the  affront  of  her 
proposition  in  Pat's  eyes.  He  looked  at  her,  bit 
his  lip,  and,  without  a  word,  turned  on  his  heel 
and  left  her. 

As  he  passed  out  the  door  the  sound  of  a  sob 
reached  his  ear.  He  was  back  in  a  moment. 


85 


"  Fo'  the  love  o'  shad,  ma'am,  don't — dorttfret. 
Niver  mind,  now,  I  tell  ye.  If  ye  cry  anither  dthrop 
I'll  howl  out  a  high  tenor  mesilf  to  match  ye.  Sure 
it  '11  be  all  right  now,  I'll  promise  ye.  I'll  shtep 
out  by-an'-by  till  I  do  find  the  crowd,  an'  I'll  make 
a  bit  av  a  spache  that  '11  silence  thim,  an'  they'll 
niver  lay  a  hand  on  me.  I'll  promise  ye  that. 
Come  on  out,  now." 

"  Tell  'm  ees-a  no  true,  Meester  Pad.  Say  you 
was  just-a  mague  fun.  An'  anyhow,  I  b'lief  ees-a 
bedder  you  go  'way." 

She  sobbed  again. 

"  Well,  I  declare,  ma'am,  I'm  that  ashamed  av 
ye !  Ye're  f rettin'  yersilf  about  northin'  —  an' 
Socola  an'  me  like  two  peas,  a  green  wan  an'  a 
dthry  wan,  in  wan  pod.  Come  on  out,  now.  Sure 
the  crowd  around  the  shteps  are  all  half  ashlape, 
an'  they'll  have  no  fun  till  ye  do  come  an'  wake 
thim  up  wud  a  good  laugh.  Come,  now.  The 
royal  consorrt  an'  all  yer  majesty's  loyal  subjects 
'11  not  dare  open  parliamint  till  the  queen  does 
arrive." 

With  a  comical  bobbing  courtesy  he  made  way 
for  her  to  pass  out.  Sniffling  and  wiping  her  eyes, 
she  escaped  to  her  own  room  for  a  moment,  but  it 
was  not  long  before  she  joined  the  circle  on  the 
banquette. 

It  was  a  sultry  summer  afternoon,  and  the  scene 
about  the  doors  was  drowsy  enough  indeed.  The 
little  father  Di  Carlo  nodded  on  his  barrel.  The 
baby,  a  mosquito-netting  stretched  over  her  face, 


lay  sleeping  in  her  willow  cradle  at  his  side.  Sev 
eral  men  lounged  on  the  benches,  talking  lazily  in 
Italian,  and  fighting  the  flies  with  their  red  cotton 
kerchiefs. 

Within  the  shop  the  boy  Pasquale  stood  lan 
guidly  opening  oysters  for  a  black  girl,  who,  lean 
ing  with  half  her  tall  length  spread  over  the 
counter,  indolently  chewed  a  cud  of  gum  as  she 
waited  with  bovine  patience  while  her  bucket  was 
slowly  filling. 

Half-way  down  the  block  a  chattering  group  of 
neighborhood  children,  among  whom  was  a  gen 
erous  sprinkling  of  Di  Carlos,  were  playing  in  the 
doubtful  shade  of  a  tallow -tree.  Some  sat  with 
their  laps  piled  high  with  china  blossoms,  which 
they  strung  on  threads  into  fragrant  purple  neck 
laces.  A  pair  of  girls  played  "jack-stones"  on 
the  fronts  of  their  dress -skirts  lapped  one  over 
the  other  on  the  ground,  while  others,  arm  in  arm, 
promenaded  up  and  down,  shading  themselves, 
after  the  fashion  of  Paul  and  Virginia,  with  tall 
green  banana  leaves,  purloined  from  over  a  neigh 
boring  fence. 

Somewhat  apart  from  the  other  children,  and 
nearer  the  shop,  two  taller  girls  sat  crocheting 
cotton  lace,  while  their  toddling  charges  slept  at 
their  sides. 

Pat,  whose  seat  commanded  a  view  of  them,  was 
not  long  in  discovering  that  the  smaller  of  these 
two  was  Carlotta,  and,  while  he  passed  idly  from 
one  subject  to  another,  challenging  conversation  at 


87 


random  with  his  drowsy  company,  he  delighted  to 
watch  her  as  the  oblique  rays  of  the  sun  revealed 
her  each  moment  more  clearly  to  him. 

"Five  times  thim  two  childer  have  dropped 
their  nadles  to  measure  their  lace,  or  fringe,  or 
whativer  ye  call  it,"  he  said,  presently,  laughing. 
"Sure  I'm  goin'  to  watch  thim  now,  an'  the  sev 
enth  time  they  do  measure  ut  I'll  up  an'  be  off. 
I've  a  call  to  make  a  spache  to  some  o'  me  con 
stituents,  an'  I  must  hunt  thim  up.  I  do  fale  as 
lazy  as  the  fly  on  the  banana  here  at  me  elbow. 
See  him  walk  like  a  bug  from  wan  black  ind  to 
take  a  sup  at  the  ither,  too  lazy  to  raise  his  wings 
an'  fly.  There  they  go  again,  the  childer,  God 
bless  thim  !  measurin'  again  !  Six  times  in  forrty 
minutes.  Sure  they've  harrdly  time  to  put  a  tuck 
in  ut  betune  the  two  measures." 

The  signora  laughed  heartily.  "Lis'n  ad -a 
Meester  Pad  !  Pood  a  tug  in -a  lace  !  I  swea' 
you  would-a  mague  a  dead  dog  laugh." 

Her  laughter  did  Pat  good.  "  Sure  a  tuck  or  a 
him  are  all  wan  to  a  tailor  in  leather,"  he  replied, 
unconsciously  coming  into  the  domain  of  Carlyle's 
thought. 

"  But  tell  me,  ma'am,"  he  continued,  "  how  do 
ye  ladies  him  fringes,  ony way  ?  I  cudn't  f orr  the 
life  av  me  him  a  fringe,  nor  scallop  it  nayther." 

She  screamed  with  laughter  now.  "  My  God  ! 
Hem  a  fringe  !  Nobody  can-a  hem  a  fringe." 

"  Is  that  so  ?  An'  d'  ye  fringe  the  hims  ?  I'm 
not  jokin'.  Faith  I  niver  so  much  as  fringed  a 


88 


scallop  in  me  life,  let  alone  a  him.  Tell  me,  now, 
<T  yez  dthraw  threads,  orr  dthrop  stitches,  or  puck 
er  it  on  the  bias  ?  Och,  there  now  !  I  must  go  ! 
the  two  girrls  beyant  are  measurin'  their  scallops 
again.  Well,  so  long,  ma'am !  I'll  be  back  in  the 
autumn,  plaze  God,  '  whin  the  Paves  begin  to 
fall.'" 

She  was  laughing  so  that  she  could  not  speak 
when  Pat  rose  to  go. 

"  Since  ye  do  insist  upon  ut,"  he  added,  as  he 
turned  away,  "I  b'lave  I'll  change  me  summer 
plans  an'  come  back  be  supper-time.  Put  an  ex- 
thra  sup  av  coffee  in  the  dthripper,  plaze,  an' 
dthrop  the  name  av  Rooney  promiscuously  in  the 
pots." 

"  All -a  righd!  Muz-a  be  shore,  shore  come  to 
supper.  Prormus  you  sometheen  good." 

This  was  a  thing  Pat  rarely  did;  and  she  was 
delighted.  Even  had  she  not  known  that  he 
would  come  in  laden  with  paper  bags  full  of  good 
things  to  add  to  the  supper-table,  she  would  have 
been  just  as  glad  to  set  his  plate  in  between  little 
Pat's  and  Carlotta's. 

Pat  had  no  trouble  in  finding  the  "  constitu 
ents  "  whom  he  wanted  to  meet.  He  knew  that 
at  this  hour  certain  Italians  would  be  sure  to  con 
gregate  at  their  favorite  rendezvous,  a  coffee 
house  near  the  levee.  He  was  glad  to  find  Tra- 
monetti,  and  others  who  were  present  on  the  form 
er  occasion,  already  there. 

It  took  but  a  few  moments  to  repeat  his  former 


account  of  the  Socola  wedding,  which  he  colored 
with  new  drolleries  in  the  narration,  and  to  add — 
and  this  was  the  object  of  his  visit  —  the  item 
carelessly  omitted  before  —  viz.,  Socola's  threat 
that  the  Mafia  would  avenge  a  betrayal  of  the 
affair. 

This,  he  carefully  explained,  was  the  reason  his 
good  friends  the  Di  Carlos  had  felt  constrained 
to  deny  it.  They  were  afraid  of  the  Mafia.  They 
couldn't  understand  how  he  and  Socola  under 
stood  each  other  perfectly  now,  and,  after  all,  it 
was  a  small  matter  whether  Socola  had  been  jilted 
or  not :  who  cared  ?  It  was  a  thing  of  the  past. 
For  himself,  he  only  mentioned  it  again  to  prove 
that  he  hadn't  lied  before.  The  whole  business 
was,  he  finally  declared,  "a  timpest  in  a  tay-pot," 
and  the  sooner  forgotten  the  better.  He  ended 
by  begging  them  not  to  "worry  the  madam" 
by  saying  anything  more  about  it  at  the  Di 
Carlos'. 

"  Sure  the  madam's  been  wapin'  an'  wailin'  for 
feer  I'll  be  kilt  entirely.  She  thinks  I'm  out  this 
minute  tellin'  ye  all  I  was  jokin'  an'  thryin'  to 
back  out  av  the  whole  shtatemint.  Sure  I'd  back 
out  in  a  minute  if  I  knowed  a  back-shtep  ;  but 
when  I  tuck  dancin'- lessons  in  Paris  whin  I  was 
a  yungshter,  I  niver  learrned  the  craw-fish  move 
ment,  an'  faith  it's  too  late  in  life  now  to  dthrag 
me  wooden  peg  into  a  new  figure.  There's  but 
three-quarrters  av  me  left,  onyhow,  but  it's  three- 
quarrters  av  a  man's  shape,  praise  God,  an'  I'll 


90 


not  disgrace  the  fraction,  for  the  likeness  it  does 
bear  me  mother,  God  rest  her." 

The  crowd  were  rather  still  and  subdued  for 
some  time  after  Pat  left  them. 

"  I'm  sorry  I  ever  opened  my  lips  about  Socola's 
business,"  said  one,  finally,  in  Italian;  "but,  any 
how,  I  told  where  I  heard  it." 

"  I  never  said  anything  to  anybody,"  said  an 
other,  uand  I'm  glad.  I  don't  want  any  of  his 
flock  of  vampires  following  me  in  the  dark." 

"  But  I'd  hate  to  be  in  that  Irishman's  shoes !" 

"  In  his  one  shoe,  you  mean.  And  me  too.  So 
would  I." 


VI 

For  several  months  after  this  things  seemed  to 
drift  along  as  usual. 

Pat's  prosperity,  already  assured  though  plod 
ding,  had  been  unexpectedly  accelerated  by  the 
sudden  death  of  his  partner,  whose  widow  had 
preferred  a  settlement  in  cash  to  the  possible  risk 
of  an  investment  subject  to  the  vicissitudes  of 
trade.  This  left  Pat  in  sole  possession  of  a  prom 
ising  little  business,  and  he  was  doing  well. 

He  still  went  "  home  "  nearly  every  Sunday ; 
and,  as  Carlotta  had  of  late  been  especially  kind 
to  him,  he  began  to  feel  that  the  materialization  of 
his  hopes  was  not  far  distant. 

The  youth  Rubino  still  hung  about  the  shop 


!M 


with  his  accordion,  and  once  Pat  had  found  him 
and  Carlotta  out  walking  together  when  he  came 
on  Sunday  afternoon.  He  said  to  himself  that  it 
was  all  right  for  her  to  be  happy  in  her  own 
youthful  way,  and  he  tried  to  feel  glad.  Indeed, 
if  he  were  not  wholly  so  at  the  time,  her  hearty 
greeting  when  she  came  home  in  a  little  while 
made  him  forget  it  all. 

So  the  winter  passed — a  second  since  the  Socola 
affair.  In  a  month  Carlotta  would  pass  her  eigh- 
teenth  birthday.  Things  were  coming  very  close. 

Pat  feared  no  opposition  from  the  Di  Carlo 
parents.  Indeed,  the  signora,  in  her  relation  of 
unconscious  mother-in-law  elect,  was  a  joy  to  his 
Irish  heart.  She  had  evidently  no  suspicion  of 
the  truth,  and,  in  face  of  Pat's  blossoming  out 
into  a  successful  gentleman,  had  been  unable  to 
refrain  from  throwing  out  occasional  hints  recall 
ing  his  early  fancy  for  Carlotta.  And  Pat,  the 
while  laughing  in  his  sleeve,  kept  her  in  continual 
suspense  by  hinting  at  other  possible  alliances, 
as  when  he  said : 

"Sure  an'  I  wush  ye  cud  see  the  widdy 
Schmidt,  how  purrty  an'  yimg  she  is  since  the 
ould  man's  gone.  Troth  an'  ye  may  heer  any  day 
av  an  elopemint  in  high  life.  Sure  I  tould  'er  we 
betther  wait  till  the  Berrmuda  is  firrmly  rooted 
on  the  ould  gintleman's  grave  —  God  rist  'im !  — 
an'  —  wud  ye  bel'ave? — she  does  northin'  but 
shprinkle  it  wud  a  watherin'-pot  since." 

*<  Oh-h-h,  'z-a  shame  f  o'  you,  Meester  Pad,  talk 


92 


like  thad !  Can  get  plenny  pritty  young-a  woma1 
yed." 

"  I've  not  fully  made  up  me  mind  yet,  ma'am, 
sure,  till  I  do  see  wull  she  turrn  back  all  the  cap 
ital  she  dthrew  out  av  the  thrade  an'  promise  me 
a  day  off  once  a  wake  from  cinnamon-cake  till  I 
do  fale  me  pulse  an'  starrt  fresh." 

It  was  no  wonder  the  signora  missed  Pat  out  of 
her  daily  life.  He  made  so  much  fun.  Was  it 
strange  she  wanted  to  secure  him  ? 

It  was  at  last  Carlotta's  birthday.  Pat  had 
come  to  town  rather  earlier  than  usual,  intend 
ing  to  take  her  —  alone  for  the  first  time  —  out 
for  a  ride.  They  would  go  up  to  the  Carrollton 
Garden  and  sit  on  one  of  the  little  benches  to 
gether  under  a  tree  ;  and  when  they  came  home 
they  would  tell  "  the  madam  "  and  ask  her  bless 
ing. 

He  knew  just  the  funny  things  he  would  say  as 
he  would  present  the  little  bald  spot  on  his  head 
for  her  maternal  blessing.  And  then  they  would 
have  to  tell  —  or  rather  to  ask  —  the  father.  He 
scratched  his  head  a  little  nervously  at  this  thought, 
and  wished  the  ordeal  were  over ;  yet  he  would 
get  through  somehow,  and  "carry  it  off"  with 
whatever  inspiration  the  moment  should  bring. 

He  was  dressed  in  his  very  best,  and  would  have 
given  much  to  wear  his  artificial  leg  for  the  occa 
sion.  He  would  have  liked  to  appear  as  a  whole 
man  walking  at  her  side  to-night. 

It  was  just  merging  into  twilight  when  he  ap- 


93 


preached  the  shop,  and  the  family  sat,  as  usual, 
about  the  doors. 

"  An1  where's  Lottie  ?"  he  asked,  as  he  joined 
the  circle. 

He  had  never  called  for  her  in  this  way  before, 
but  he  was  too  near  the  edge  of  things  to-night 
to  think  or  to  care. 

"  C'lotta  ees-a  just  now  gone  oud-a  walk  weeth 
Giuseppe  Rubino.  Sid  down,  Meester  Pad."  And 
the  signora  lifted  her  foot  from  the  rung  of  a 
stool  and  pushed  it  towards  him. 

He  sat  down,  but  he  was  uneasy. 

After  a  little  while,  during  which,  the  signora 
afterwards  said,  he  had  never  been  more  lively  or 
witty,  he  rose  and  left  them. 

For  the  last  three  Saturday  evenings  Carlotta 
had  been  out  with  Giuseppe  when  he  came,  but  he 
had  tried  not  to  think  seriously  of  it.  But  to 
night  !  Had  she  not  remembered  ?  Did  she  not 
realize  that  to-day  meant  much  to  him— and  to 
her  ?  He  would  pass  the  hour  until  he  should  be 
sure  to  find  her  at  home  in  his  favorite  retreat  on 
the  river-bank,  alone.  There  would  be  no  demand 
upon  him  here,  and  he  could  get  himself  together 
again ;  for  he  was  keenly  hurt. 

As  he  left  the  Di  Carlos',  he  could  not  see  that 
two  men  —  Sicilians  they  were — who  stood  to 
gether  in  the  shadow  of  the  wall  across  the  way, 
moved  slowly  after  him  until  he  stopped  the  car, 
when,  quickening  their  paces,  they  also  jumped 
aboard,  one  seating  himself  within,  while  the 


94 


other  passed  out  to  the  platform  with  the  driver. 
Neither  could  he  know  when  he  crossed  the  wharf 
that  these  two  men  watched  and  by  separate  routes 
followed  him  at  a  distance  as  he  disappeared 
among  the  shadows  between  the.  piles  of  freight 
along  the  pier. 

The  river  was  high,  and  when  he  reached  his 
accustomed  seat  the  floating  wharf  which  was 
chained  to  the  heavy  timbers  attracted  him.  He 
had  never  been  down  here,  but  a  pair  of  hanging 
steps  invited  the  folly  of  his  descent  to-night,  and 
he  had  soon  hobbled  down  and  seated  himself  on 
the  inner  edge  of  the  raft,  and  thus  within  the 
shadow  of  the  pier  above.  It  pleased  his  mood  to 
get  thus  near  the  turbulent,  restless  waters  for  a 
while. 

To  sit  in  a  little  black  shadow  while  he  waited 
for  Carlotta  to  come  home  with  Giuseppe  suited 
him  to-night ;  while  the  booming,  swelling,  resist 
less  river  which  lifted  him  upon  its  bosom  and 
seemed  threatening  to  submerge  everything  was 
typical  of  his  love. 

His  thoughts  had  hardly  begun  to  cool  and 
shape  themselves  when,  first  vaguely,  as  at  a  dis 
tance,  and  now  nearer,  clearer,  came  the  sound  of 
an  accordion. 

On  summer  evenings,  almost  anywhere  along 
the  river-bank  one  may  expect  to  find  a  sprink 
ling  of  accordion-players — usually  German  kitch 
en-courtships  out  for  an  airing— and  there  should 
have  been  nothing  very  startling  in  the  sound ; 


95 


yet  its  first  note  made  the  Irishman's  heart  stand 
still.  He  knew  the  most  distant  reach  of  Giu 
seppe's  accordion.  It  had  come  out  to  meet  him 
too  often  in  the  evenings  for  him  to  mistake  it  now. 
It  was  coming  very  near,  and  soon  he  began  to 
hear  voices — Carlotta's  and  the  youth's.  They 
were  sitting  down  on  the  wharf  just  above  his 
head.  Broken  snatches  of  tunes  proved  that 
Giuseppe  was  toying  thoughtlessly  with  his  in 
strument,  and  while  he  played  he  was  earnestly 
talking.  Soon  the  music  stopped  altogether,  the 
voice  fell  lower,  more  serious,  more  indistinct.  It 
seemed  to  Pat  that  the  boy  talked  for  an  age;  but 
he  could  distinguish  nothing. 

But  presently  Carlotta  spoke,  clearly : 

"  No,  no,  Giuseppe.  Hush  !  I  can't  lis'n  at 
you !" 

Then  again  Giuseppe  muttered  in  a  tone  indis 
tinct  as  to  words,  but  full  of  pleading. 

And  now  Carlotta  again  : 

"Hush,  I  say,  Giuseppe  !  I  mus'rit  lis'n  at  you! 
I  wish  I  was  dead  !  I  hate  you  ! — I  hate  myself  ! 
— I  hate  your  music ! — I  hate  everything !  Before 
you  came,  I  was  satisfied.  Everything  was  prom 
ise  good,,  an'  I  never  knowed  no  better.  Now, 
when  I  put  my  finger  in  my  ears,  I  hear  you  sing 
— I  hear  that  music.  Oh,  I  hate  it  all !  To-night 
I  ought  to  be  home,  and  I  am  here  with  you — al 
ways  with  you." 

He  spoke  more  clearly  now  in  Italian  :  "  But 
why  do  you  speak  so,  Carlotta?  It  is  not  true 


96 


that  you  hate  me.  You  love  me — I  know  it,  I 
feel  it.  Since  first  I  saw  you,  I  knew  we  were  for 
each  other." 

"  But  no,  Giuseppe.  Hush,  I  say  !  I  can't  be 
for  you.  Since  two  years  I  am  promised.  My 
word  is  passed." 

"And  who  is  it  that  holds  a  child  by  her  word 
when  she  loves  him  not?" 

"  Oh,  hush,  Giuseppe  !  He  don't  hold  me.  I 
hold  myself.  He  is  the  best  man  in  all  the  world. 
He  loves  me  more  than  even  my  maw.  Since  I 
was  so  big  he  loved  me  and  I  loved  him  good ; 
but  since  you  came  I  am  not  the  same.  I  am  not 
fit.  I  run  away  with  you,  and  then  when  I  see 
him  I  am  sorry,  and  speak  kind  with  him,  but  all 
the  time  I  see  you.  He  trusts  me,  Giuseppe,  same 
like  I  trust  the  blessed  Mother — he  even  put  my 
name  by  her  name  once — and  you  have  all  broken 
me  hearted,  Giuseppe,  an'  made  me  turn  away 
from  him.  I  wish  I  was  dead ! — and  you  ! — and 
him !" 

There  were  tears  in  her  voice. 

"  But  listen,  Carlotta.  You  don't  understand. 
Nothing  is  true  but  love.  Everything  else  conies 
after — promises,  mistakes,  all — everything  !  Love 
is  from  God  Almighty.  He  never  sends  love  like 
mine  but  he  sends  the  answer  too.  For  two 
months  I  have  read  my  answer  in  your  eyes,  and 
was  satisfied  ;  but  it  was  sweet  to  wait,  to  sing,  to 
play,  to  laugh  all  around  it,  making  believe  I  was 
not  sure.  But  I  am  sure.  You  are  mine!" 


97 


"  Oh,  but  no,  no,  no,  Guiseppe !  I  am  not  for 
you.  If  I  was  that  mean,  God  would  never  bless 
me  nor  you.  It  would  be  a  curse.  You  cannot 
understand." 

"  Who  is  this  coward  who  holds  you  ?" 
"  But  hush  !  He  is  no  coward,  Giuseppe.  Me, 
I  am  a  coward — but  not  him.  It  was  me  what 
made  him  speak  love.  You  talk  about  God  !  For 
what  does  God  let  us  make  mistakes !  How  can 
we  be  sure?  I  was  crazy  for  him,  and  in  my 
heart  I  felt  sure— sure  it  was  love,  and  I  told  him, 
Giuseppe.  I  made  him  to  love  me.  And  now — 
if  only  you  go  away,  Giuseppe  !  If  you  love  me 
true,  go,  and  let  me  have  peace  and  not  trouble. 
Go  far,  and  let  me  forget  the  sound  of  your  mu 
sic — let  me  forget  your  eyes— let  me  not  see  your 
shape  in  the  air  which  way  I  turn.  Then  it  will 
all  pass  away,  and  I  will  be  like  before.  I  love 
him  good,  Giuseppe.  I  am  not  a  liar.  Only  now 
I  am  like  in  a  dream,  and  in  my  dream  I  see 
only  you.  Now  I  see,  I  know,  what  you  meant, 
Giuseppe,  when  you  said  in  your  sleep  I  stood 
before  you.  But  soon  I  will  wake.  I  will  see 
his  kind  eyes,  and  it  will  pass.  He  will  never 
know." 

"  And  who  is  this  man  for  whom  you  put  me 
away  ?" 

"  It  is  time  enough,  Giuseppe  ;   but  better  if 
you  never  know  him.     Go  far  away." 

"  I  go  not  away  without  you,  Carlotta.     Every 
day  I  will  come  till  I  get  you.     I  will  walk  by  your 


98 


side  before  this  man,  and  when  he  looks  at  us  he 
will  see  he  is  a  fool." 

"  I  walk  with  you  no  more,  Giuseppe.  To-night 
finishes.  Come,  let  us  go.  I  heard  a  noise,  and 
just  now  over  there  a  shadow  moved.  I  am  afraid. 
Come." 

As  they  rose  to  go,  the  accordion,  which  Giu 
seppe  grasped  hastily  in  rising,  opening  by  its 
own  weight,  sent  out  an  attenuated  discordant 
wail.  And  to  Pat,  sitting  alone  in  the  shadow  be 
neath,  it  sounded  like  a  weird  Banshee's  shriek 
coming  from  far  over  the  seas. 

The  tender  tremor  in  Carlotta's  voice  when  first 
she  spoke  Giuseppe's  name  had  struck  his  heart 
like  a  death-knell,  and  the  words  which  followed 
were  but  as  clods  falling  upon  a  coffin.  The  girl's 
loyalty  through  it  all  seemed  to  mock  him  like  a 
hymn  at  a  grave.  It  was  as  the  silver  sheen  upon 
the  silken  fabric  of  a  shroud — the  smile  upon  the 
face  of  death. 

For  a  long  time  after  they  had  gone  the  heavy 
timbers  about  him  were  not  more  still  than  he. 

Once  he  thought  he  heard  soft  steps  above  him. 
If  he  had  risen,  he  might  have  seen  two  dark  fig 
ures  peering  stealthily  about  as  if  looking  for 
some  one.  They  might  have  been  assassins  in 
ambush. 

But  Pat  did  not  even  glance  upward. 

Can  any  one,  by  simply  imagining,  be  sure  he 
half  understands  how  this  man  felt  ?  or  must  he 
have  passed  through  the  shades  of  a  like  sorrow 


99 


to  know  its  black,  bleak  depths  and  the  hopeless 
ness  of  it  ? 

His  first  movement  was  to  cast  his  eyes  about 
him  upon  the  water.  It  was  all  around  him — so 
near — go  inviting.  It  seemed  almost  to  call  him. 
It  would  have  been  so  easy,  from  where  he  sat, 
just  to  lean  over  and  over,  like  Maupassant's  little 
blue-and-red  soldier,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  drink. 
There  would  be  only  a  few  bubbles — fit  emblems 
of  his  life  and  its  story — and  so  it  would  end. 

Had  he  not  promised  her  his  grave  whenever  it 
would  be  a  safe  bridge  over  her  troubles  ?  The 
time  had  come.  Or  had  it  come?  Would  the 
plunge  be  for  her  sake  or  his  own?  Was  he, 
after  all,  a  coward — he  who  had  never  run  from 
a  foe  in  his  life — who  had  even  fought  and  van 
quished  his  potheen  with  a  flask  in  his  pocket? 

Distinct  rapid  footsteps  above  startled  him,  and 
he  raised  his  eyes.  As  he  did  so,  a  bundle  fell  at 
his  side  into  the  water,  and  the  steps  retreated. 

He  seemed  to  see  a  struggle  as  the  dark  object 
twisted  for  a  second  within  the  rings  of  the  eddy 
that  swallowed  it  down;  but  he  could  not  be  sure. 
In  a  moment,  however,  he  heard,  quite  near,  the 
thin,  wiry  cry  of  a  young  kitten.  He  looked  about 
him  and  above,  but  could  see  nothing  of  it,  though 
the  sound  came  again  and  again.  Finally,  how 
ever,  a  desperate  wail  located  the  sufferer. 

On  the  outside  of  the  heavy  timbers,  caught 
in  its  fall  by  a  protruding  splinter  or  spike,  the 
wretched  little  creature  hung  suspended,  its  own 


100 


weight  and  struggles  imprisoning  it  more  securely 
each  moment  within  the  notch. 

The  struggling  contents  of  the  whirling  bundle 
were  explained.  This  little  unfortunate  had  slipped 
out  of  the  open  bag  in  its  fall,  to  perish  high  and 
dry  in  the  night  wind,  or  to  be  scorched  by  the 
sun  should  it  survive  the  night. 

Pat  regarded  the  writhing  little  form  a  moment 
only. 

"Sure  we're  in  the  same  boat,  kitty,  you  an' 
me,"  he  said,  aloud ;  "  we're  wan  too  many  in  a 
crowded  worrld.  But,  plaze  God,  I'll  give  ye  the 
same  chance  I'll  take  meself — in  the  name  o'  Him 
that  shaped  the  two  av  us." 

With  this,  seizing  the  fragment  of  a  broken  oar, 
he  swung  himself  outside  the  timbers. 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  two  black  shadows 
rushed  noiselessly  across  the  wharf,  and,  quickly 
reaching  the  edge,  peered  over. 

What  they  saw  was  only  a  whining  young  kit 
ten  crawling  feebly  along  the  raft. 

The  upward  reach  with  the  oar  which  liberated 
the  little  beast  and  sent  him  back  to  life  had 
thrown  his  deliverer  accidentally  backward.  The 
grip  of  his  one  leg  about  the  post  had  served  only 
to  let  him  down,  down,  gently,  noiselessly,  into  the 
eddying  current,  which  sucked  him  under  the  raft 
without  even  a  twirl  or  a  twist.  There  was  not 
so  much  as  a  gurgle  of  the  waters  as  he  sank. 

The  black  figures  waited  a  long  time,  lying  on 
their  faces  and  listening,  and  two  stilettos  were 


101* 


drawn  and  ready.  When  the  voice  should  speak 
again,  they  would  do  their  work  quickly;  for  the 
emissaries  of  the  Mafia  are  wont  to  use  despatch. 

It  was  past  midnight,  and  the  moon  was  rising, 
when  at  last,  despairing  and  mystified,  they  sep 
arated  reluctantly,  and  by  different  routes  went 
to  report  another  failure  to  old  Pietro  Socola, 
their  chief. 

The  Di  Carlos  wondered  with  great  anxiety 
why  Pat  did  not  come  home,  and  all  during  the 
night  the  signora  started  at  every  sound,  fancy 
ing  she  heard  his  wooden  peg  ascending  the 
stairs. 

It  was  on  the  second  day  afterwards  when  a  boy 
in  the  shop  read  from  the  daily  paper  that  the 
body  of  a  one-legged  man  had  been  washed  up 
against  a  coal-barge  floating  in  the  river  near 
Canal  Street. 

The  father  Di  Carlo  went  immediately  to  in 
vestigate  the  matter,  and  when  he  came  home  an 
hour  later,  and  the  family  gathered  about  him, 
anxious  to  hear  the  news,  he  only  shook  his  head 
sadly,  and,  taking  from  his  handkerchief  an  old 
red  baby  shoe,  he  said,  "It  was  in  his  inside 
pocket." 

Customers  who  came  in  at  the  time,  and  people 
passing  by,  thought  from  their  distress  that  a 
member  of  the  family  was  dead. 

Carlotta,  trembling  and  white  as  marble,  went 
away  alone. 

An  investigation  of  Pat's  affairs  and  effects  dis- 


102 


closed  a  will,  made  some  years  before,  bequeath 
ing  to  Carlotta  all  his  worldly  goods. 

A  large  proportion  of  this — which  proved  quite 
a  neat  competence  —  she  expended,  despite  her 
mother's  frugal  protest  that  it  could  do  him  no 
good,  in  a  handsome  marble  shaft  to  his  memory. 
In  its  unique  inscription,  which  was  of  her  own 
dictation,  she  sought  to  make  some  sort  of  repa 
ration  for  the  sin  of  which  she  accused  herself. 

The  monument  still  stands  in  the  corner  of  St. 
Patrick's  Cemetery,  and  reads: 


IN     MEMORY 
OF 

Patrick  Hooneji, 

INTEND    OF    CARLOTTA    Dl    CARLO, 
AGE,   42  YEARS. 


And  on  any  All  -  Saints'  Day,  Carlotta  and  Giu 
seppe,  with  their  flock  of  beautiful  children,  may 
be  seen  to  stop  there  for  a  while,  leaving  a  bou 
quet  of  plush -topped  coxcombs  and  a  cross  of 
white  chrysanthemums. 


THE    END 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

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